LIBRARY 

<* 

IRVINE 


CRITTENDEN 

^*- 

A   Kentucky  Story 
of  Love  and  War 


BY 

JOHN    FOX,   JR. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW    YORK  MDCCCC 


Copyright,  i  goo,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


MANHATTAN  PRESS 

474  W.  BROADWAY 

NEW  YORK 


To 
THE   MASTER 

of 
BALLYHOO 


CRITTENDEN 


DAY  breaking  on  the  edge  of  the  Blue- 
grass  and  birds  singing  the  dawn 
in.  Ten  minutes  swiftly  along  the  sunrise 
and  the  world  is  changed:  from  nervous 
exaltation  of  atmosphere  to  an  air  of  balm 
and  peace  ;  from  grim  hills  to  the  rolling 
sweep  of  green  slopes;  from  a  high  mist  of 
thin  verdure  to  low  wind-shaken  banners  of 
young  leaves;  from  giant  poplar  to  white 
ash  and  sugar-tree;  from  log  cabin  to  home 
steads  of  brick  and  stone;  from  wood-thrush 
to  meadow  lark;  rhododendron  to  bluegrass; 
from  mountain  to  lowland,  Crittenden  was 
passing  home. 

He  had  been  in  the  backwoods  for  more 

than  a  month,  ostensibly  to  fish  and  look  at 

coal  lands,   but,   really,   to  get  away  for  a 

while,  as  his  custom  was,  from  his  worse  self 

i 


Crittenden 

to  the  better  self  that  he  was  when  he  was  in 
the  mountains — alone.  As  usual,  he  had 
gone  in  with  bitterness  and,  as  usual,  he  had 
set  his  face  homeward  with  but  half  a  heart 
for  the  old  fight  against  fate  and  himself 
that  seemed  destined  always  to  end  in  defeat. 
At  dusk,  he  heard  the  word  of  the  outer 
world  from  the  lips  of  an  old  mountaineer  at 
the  foot  of  the  Cumberland — the  first  heard, 
except  from  his  mother,  for  full  thirty  days — 
and  the  word  was — war.  He  smiled  incred 
ulously  at  the  old  fellow,  but,  unconsciously, 
he  pushed  his  horse  on  a  little  faster  up  the 
mountain,  pushed  him,  as  the  moon  rose, 
aslant  the  breast  of  a  mighty  hill  and,  wind 
ing  at  a  gallop  about  the  last  downward  turn 
of  the  snaky  path,  went  at  full  speed  along 
side  the  big  gray  wall  that,  above  him,  rose 
sheer  a  thousand  feet  and,  straight  ahead, 
broke  wildly  and  crumbled  into  historic  Cum 
berland  Gap.  From  a  little  knoll  he  saw  the 
railway  station  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
and,  on  one  prong  of  a  switch,  his  train  pant 
ing  lazily:  and,  with  a  laugh,  he  pulled  his 
horse  down  to  a  walk  and  then  to  a  dead 
stop  —  his  face  grave  again  and  uplifted. 
Where  his  eyes  rested  and  plain  in  the  moon- 
2 


Crittenden 

light  was  a  rocky  path  winding  upward— 
the  old  Wilderness  Trail  that  the  Kentucky 
pioneers  had  worn  with  moccasined  feet  more 
than  a  century  before.  He  had  seen  it  a 
hundred  times  before — moved  always:  but  it- 
thrilled  him  now,  and  he  rode  on  slowly, 
looking  up  at  it.  His  forefathers  had  helped 
blaze  that  trail.  On  one  side  of  that  wall 
they  had  fought  savage  and  Briton  for  a 
home  and  a  country,  and  on  the  other  side 
they  had  done  it  again.  Later,  they  had 
fought  the  Mexican  and  in  time  they  came 
to  fight  each  other,  for  and  against  the  nation 
they  had  done  so  much  to  upbuild.  It  was 
even  true  that  a  Crittenden  had  already 
given  his  life  for  the  very  cause  that  was  so 
tardily  thrilling  the  nation  now.  Thus  it 
had  always  been  with  his  people  straight 
down  the  bloody  national  highway  from 
Yorktown  to  Appomattox,  and  if  there  was 
war,  he  thought  proudly,  as  he  swung  from 
his  horse — thus  it  would  now  be  with  him. 

If  there  was  war?  He  had  lain  awake  in 
his  berth  a  long  while,  looking  out  the  win 
dow  and  wondering.  He  had  been  born 
among  the  bleeding  memories  of  one  war. 
The  tales  of  his  nursery  had  been  tales  of 
3 


Crittenden 

war.  And  though  there  had  been  talk  of 
war  through  the  land  for  weeks  before  he 
left  home,  it  had  no  more  seemed  possible 
that  in  his  lifetime  could  come  another  war 
than  that  he  should  live  to  see  any  other  myth 
of  his  childhood  come  true. 

Now,  it  was  daybreak  on  the  edge  of  the 
bluegrass,  and,  like  a  dark  truth  from  a  while 
light,  three  tall  letters  leaped  from  the  paper 
in  his  hand — War!  There  was  a  token  in 
the  very  dawn,  a  sword-like  flame  flashing 
upward.  The  man  in  the  White  House  had 
called  for  willing  hands  by  the  thousands  to 
wield  it,  and  the  Kentucky  Legion,  that  had 
fought  in  Mexico,  had  split  in  twain  to  fight 
for  the  North  and  for  the  South,  and  had 
come  shoulder  to  shoulder  when  the  breach 
was  closed — the  Legion  of  his  own  loved 
State — was  the  first  body  of  volunteers  to 
reach  for  the  hilt.  Regulars  were  gathering 
from  the  four  winds  to  an  old  Southern  battle 
field.  Already  the  Legion  was  on  its  way  to 
camp  in  the  Bluegrass.  His  town  was  mak 
ing  ready  to  welcome  it,  and  among  the 
names  of  the  speakers  who  were  to  voice  the; 
welcome,  he  saw  his  own — Clay  Crittenden. 


II 


THE  train  slackened  speed  and  stopped. 
There  was  his  horse — Ixaincrow — and  his 
buggy  waiting  for  him  when  he  stepped  from 
the  platform;  and,  as  he  went  forward  with 
his  fishing  tackle,  a  livery-stable  boy  sprang 
out  of  the  buggy  and  went  to  the  horse's 
head. 

"  Bob  lef  yo'  hoss  in  town  las'  night,  Mis- 
tuh  Crittenden,"  lie  said.  "  Miss  Rachel 
said  yestiddy  she  jes  knowed  you  was  comin' 
home  this  mornin'." 

Crittenden  smiled  —  it  was  one  of  his 
mother's  premonitions;  she  seemed  always  to 
know  when  he  was  coming  home. 

"  Come  get  these  things,"  he  said,  and 
went  on  with  his  paper. 

"Yessuh!" 

Things  had  gone  swiftly  while  he  was  in 
the  hills.  Old  ex-Confederates  were  an 
swering  the  call  from  the  Capitol.  One  of 
his  father's  old  comrades — little  Jerry  Carter 
— was  to  be  made  a  major-general.  Among 
5 


Crittenden 

the  regulars  mobilizing  at  Chickamauga,  was 
the  regiment  to  which  Rivers,  a  friend  of 
his  boyhood,  belonged.  There,  three  days 
later,  his  State  was  going  to  dedicate  two 
monuments  to  her  sons  who  had  fallen  on 
the  old  battle-field,  where  his  father,  fighting 
with  one  wing  of  the  Legion  for  the  Lost 
Cause,  and  his  father's  young  brother,  fight 
ing  with  the  other  against  it,  had  fought  face 
to  face;  where  his  uncle  met  death  on  the 
field  and  his  father  got  the  wound  that 
brought  death  to  him  years  after  the  war. 
And  then  he  saw  something  that  for  a  mo 
ment  quite  blotted  the  war  from  his  brain  and 
made  him  close  the  paper  quickly.  Judith 
had  come  home — Judith  was  to  unveil  those 
statues — Judith  Page. 

The  town  was  asleep,  except  for  the  rattle 
of  milk-carts,  the  banging  of  shutters,  and 
the  hum  of  a  street-car,  and  Crittenden 
moved  through  empty  streets  to  the  broad 
smooth  turnpike  on  the  south,  where  Rain- 
crow  shook  his  head,  settled  his  haunches,  and 
broke  into  the  swinging  trot  peculiar  to  his 
breed — for  home. 

Spring  in  the  Bluegrass!  The  earth  spir 
itual  as  it  never  is  except  under  new-fallen 
6 


Crittenden 

snow — in  the  first  shy  green.  The  leaves,  a 
floating  mist  of  green,  so  buoyant  that,  if 
loosed,  they  must,  it  seemed,  have  floated 
upward — never  to  know  the  blight  of  frost 
or  the  droop  of  age.  The  air,  rich  with  the 
smell  of  new  earth  and  sprouting  grass,  the 
long,  low  skies  newly  washed  and,  through 
radiant  distances,  clouds  light  as  thistledown 
and  white  as  snow.  And  the  birds!  Wrens 
in  the  hedges,  sparrows  by  the  wayside  and 
on  fence-rails,  starlings  poised  over  meadows 
brilliant  with  glistening  dew,  larks  in  the 
pastures — all  singing  as  they  sang  as  the  first 
dawn,  and  the  mood  of  nature  that  perfect 
blending  of  earth  and  heaven  that  is  given 
her  children  but  rarely  to  know.  It  was 
good  to  be  alive  at  the  breaking  of  such  a 
day — good  to  be  young  and  strong,  and  eager 
and  unafraid,  when  the  nation  called  for  its 
young  men  and  red  Mars  was  the  morning 
star.  The  blood  of  dead  fighters  began  to 
leap  again  in  his  veins.  His  nostrils  dilated 
and  his  chin  was  raised  proudly — a  racial 
chord  touched  within  him  that  had  been 
dumb  a  long  while.  And  that  was  all  it 
was — the  blood  of  his  fathers;  for  it  was 
honor  and  not  love  that  bound  him  to  his 
7 


Crittenden 

own  flag.  He  was  his  mother's  son,  and  the 
unspoken  bitterness  that  lurked  in  her  heart 
lurked,  likewise,  on  her  account,  in  his. 

On  the  top  of  a  low  hill,  a  wind  from  the 
.dawn  struck  him,  and  the  paper  in  the  bottom 
of  the  buggy  began  to  snap  against  the  dash 
board.  He  reached  down  to  keep  it  from 
being  whisked  into  the  road,  and  he  saw  again 
that  Judith  Page  had  come  home.  When 
he  sat  up  again,  his  face  was  quite  changed. 
His  head  fell  a  little  forward,  his  shoulders 
drooped  slightly  and,  for  a  moment,  his 
buoyancy  was  gone.  The  corners  of  the 
mouth  showed  a  settled  melancholy  where 
before  was  sunny  humor.  The  eyes,  which 
were  dreamy,  kindly,  gray,  looked  backward 
in  a  morbid  glow  of  concentration;  and  over 
the  rather  reckless  cast  of  his  features,  lay  at 
once  the  shadow  of  suffering  and  the  light  of 
a  great  tenderness.  Slowly,  a  little  hardness 
came  into  his  eyes  and  a  little  bitterness  about 
his  mouth.  His  upper  lip  curved  in  upon 
his  teeth  with  self -scorn — for  he  had  had  little 
cause  to  be  pleased  with  himself  while  Judith 
was  gone,  and  his  eyes  showed  now  how  proud 
was  the  scorn — and  he  shook  himself  sharply 
and  sat  upright.  He  had  forgotten  again. 


Crittenden 

That  part  of  his  life  belonged  to  the  past  and, 
like  the  past,  was  gone  and  was  not  to  come 
back  again.  The  present  had  life  and  hope 
now,  and  the  purpose  born  that  day  from 
five  blank  years  was  like  the  sudden  birth  of 
a  flower  in  a  desert. 

The  sun  had  burst  from  the  horizon  now 
and  was  shining  through  the  tops  of  the  trees 
in  the  lovely  woodland  into  which  Crittenden 
turned,  and  through  which  a  road  of  brown 
creek-sand  ran  to  the  pasture  beyond  and 
through  that  to  the  long  avenue  of  locusts,  up 
which  the  noble  portico  of  his  old  homestead, 
Canewood,  was  visible  among  cedars  and  firs 
and  old  forest-trees.  His  mother  was  not  up 
yet — the  shutters  of  her  window  were  still 
closed — but  the  servants  were  astir  and  busy. 
He  could  see  men  and  plough-horses  on  their 
way  to  the  fields;  and,  that  far  away,  he  could 
hear  the  sound  of  old  Ephraim's  axe  at  the 
woodpile,  the  noises  around  the  barn  and 
cowpens,  and  old  Aunt  Keziah  singing  a 
hymn  in  the  kitchen,  the  old  wailing  cry  of 
the  mother-slave. 

"  Oh  I  wonder  whur  my  baby's  done  gone, 

OhLawd! 
An'  I  git  on  my  knees  an'  pray. ' ' 

9 


Crittenden 

The  song  stopped,  a  negro  boy  sprang  out 
the  kitchen-door  and  ran  for  the  stiles — a  tall, 
strong,  and  very  black  boy  with  a  dancing 
eye,  white  teeth,  and  a  look  of  welcome  that 
was  little  short  of  dumb  idolatry. 

"  Howdy,  Bob." 

"Howdy,  Ole  Cap'n."  Crittenden  had 
been  "  Ole  Captain  "  with  the  servants — since 
the  death  of  "Ole  Master,"  his  father 
—to  distinguish  him  from  "  Young  Cap 
tain,"  who  was  his  brother,  Basil.  Master 
and  servant  shook  hands  and  Bob's  teeth 
flashed. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Bob?  " 

Bob  climbed  into  the  buggy. 

"  You  gwine  to  de  wah." 

Crittenden  laughed. 

"How  do  you  know,  Bob?" 

"  Oh,  I  know — I  know.  I  seed  it  when 
you  was  drivin'  up  to  de  stiles,  an'  lename  tell 
you,  Ole  Cap'n."  The  horse  started  for  the 
barn  suddenly  and  Bob  took  a  wide  circuit 
in  order  to  catch  the  eye  of  a  brown  milk 
maid  in  the  cowpens,  who  sniffed  the  air 
scornfully,  to  show  that  she  did  not  see  him, 
and  buried  the  waves  of  her  black  hair  into  the 
silken  sides  of  a  young  Jersey. 
10 


Crittenden 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  and  mak 
ing  threats  to  himself,  "  an'  Bob's  gwine  wid 
him." 

As  Crittenden  climbed  the  stiles,  old  Ke- 
ziah  filled  the  kitchen-door. 

"  Time  you  gittin'  back,  suh,"  she  cried 
with  mock  severity.  "  I  been  studyin'  'bout 
you.  Little  mo'  an'  I'd  'a'  been  comin'  fer 
you  myself.  Yes — suh." 

And  she  gave  a  loud  laugh  that  rang 
through  the  yard  and  ended  in  a  soft,  queer 
little  whoop  that  was  musical.  Crittenden 
smiled  but,  instead  of  answering,  raised  his 
hand  warningly  and,  as  he  approached  the 
portico,  he  stepped  from  the  gravel-walk  to 
the  thick  turf  and  began  to  tiptoe.  At  the 
foot  of  the  low  flight  of  stone  steps  he  stopped 
— smiling. 

The  big  double  front  door  was  wide  open, 
and  straight  through  the  big,  wide  hallway 
and  at  the  entrance  of  the  dining-room,  a 
sword — a  long  cavalry  sabre — hung  with  a 
jaunty  gray  cap  on  the  wall.  Under  them 
stood  a  boy  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him  and  his  chin  upraised.  The  lad  could 
see  the  bullet-hole  through  the  top,  and  he 
knew  that  on  the  visor  was  a  faded  stain  of  his 
ii 


Crittenden 

father's  blood.  As  a  child,  he  had  been  told 
never  to  touch  the  cap  or  sword  and,  until 
this  moment,  he  had  not  wanted  to  take  them 
down  since  he  was  a  child;  and  even  now  the 
habit  of  obedience  held  him  back  for  a  while, 
as  he  stood  looking  up  at  them.  Outside,  a 
light  wind  rustled  the  leaves  of  the  rose-bush 
at  his  mother's  window,  swept  through  the 
open  door,  and  made  the  curtain  at  his  elbow 
swell  gently.  As  the  heavy  fold  fell  back  to 
its  place  and  swung  out  again,  it  caught  the 
hilt  of  the  sword  and  made  the  metal  point 
of  the  scabbard  clank  softly  against  the  wall. 
The  boy  breathed  sharply,  remembered  that 
he  was  grown,  and  reverently  reached  upward. 
There  was  the  stain  where  the  blood  had  run 
down  from  the  furrowed  wound  that  had 
caused  his  father's  death,  long  after  the  war 
and  just  before  the  boy  was  born.  The  hilt 
was  tarnished,  and  when  he  caught  it  and 
pulled,  the  blade  came  out  a  little  way  and 
stuck  fast.  Someone  stepped  on  the  porch 
outside  and  he  turned  quickly,  as  he  might 
have  turned  had  someone  caught  him  un 
sheathing  the  weapon  when  a  child. 
"  Hold  on  there,  little  brother." 
Crittenden  stopped  in  the  doorway,  smiling 
12 


Crittenden 

affectionately,  and  the  boy  thrust  the  blade 
back  to  the  hilt. 

"  Why,  Clay,"  he  cried,  and,  as  he  ran  for 
ward,  "  Are  you  going?  "  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"  I'm  the  first-born,  you  know,"  added 
Crittenden,  still  smiling,  and  the  lad  stretched 
the  sabre  out  to  him,  repeating  eagerly: 
"  Are  you  going?  " 

The  older  brother  did  not  answer,  but 
turned,  without  taking  the  weapon,  and 
walked  to  the  door  and  back  again. 

"  Are  you?  " 

"Me?  Oh,  I  have  to  go,"  said  the  boy 
solemnly  and  with  great  dignity,  as  though 
the  matter  were  quite  beyond  the  pale  of  dis 
cussion. 

"You  do?" 

"  Yes;  the  Legion  is  going." 

"  Only  the  members  who  volunteer — no 
body  has  to  go." 

"  Don't  they? "  said  the  lad,  indignantly. 
"  Well,  if  I  had  a  son  who  belonged  to  a  mili 
tary  organization  in  time  of  peace  "•  — the  lad 
spoke  glibly — "  and  refused  to  go  with  it  to 
war — well,  I'd  rather  see  him  dead  first." 

"  Who  said  that?  "  asked  the  other,  and  the 
lad  colored. 

13 


Crittenden 

"  Why,  Judge  Page  said  it ;  that's  who. 
And  you  just  ought  to  hear  Miss  Judith !  " 

Again  the  other  walked  to  the  door  and 
back  again.  Then  he  took  the  scabbard  and 
drew  the  blade  to  its  point  as  easily  as  though 
it  had  been  oiled,  thrust  it  back,  and  hung  it 
with  the  cap  in  its  place  on  the  wall. 

"  Perhaps  neither  of  us  will  need  it,"  he 
said.  "  We'll  both  be  privates — that  is,  if  I 
go — and  I  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  We'll  let 
the  better  man  win  the  sword,  and  the  better 
man  shall  have  it  after  the  war.  What  do 
you  say?  " 

"  Say? "  cried  the  boy,  and  he  gave  the 
other  a  hug  and  both  started  for  the  porch. 
As  they  passed  the  door  of  his  mother's  room, 
the  lad  put  one  finger  on  his  lips;  but  the 
mother  had  heard  and,  inside,  a  woman  in 
black,  who  had  been  standing  before  a  mirror 
with  her  hands  to  her  throat,  let  them  fall 
suddenly  until  they  were  clasped  for  an  in 
stant  across  her  breast.  But  she  gave  no  sign 
that  she  had  heard,  at  breakfast  an  hour  later, 
even  when  the  boy  cleared  his  throat,  and 
after  many  futile  efforts  to  bring  the  matter 
up,  signalled  across  the  table  to  his  brother  for 
help. 

14 


Crittenden 

"  Mother,  Basil  there  wants  to  go  to  war. 
He  says  if  he  had  a  son  who  belonged  to  a 
military  organization  in  time  of  peace  and  re 
fused  to  go  with  it  in  time  of  war,  that  he'd 
rather  see  him  dead." 

The  mother's  lip  quivered  when  she  an 
swered,  but  so  imperceptibly  that  only  the 
older  son  saw  it. 

"  That  is  what  his  father  would  have  said," 
she  said,  quietly,  and  Crittenden  knew  she  had 
already  fought  out  the  battle  with  herself— 
alone.     For  a  moment  the  boy  was  stunned 
with  his  good  fortune — "  it  was  too  easy  " 
and  with  a  whoop  he  sprang  from  his  place 
and    caught   his    mother    around    the    neck, 
while  Uncle  Ben,  the  black  butler,  shook  his 
head  and  hurried  into  the  kitchen  for  corn- 
bread  and  to  tell  the  news. 

"  Oh,  I  tell  you  it's  great  fun  to  have  to  go 
to  war!  Mother,"  added  the  boy,  with  quick 
mischief,  "  Clay  wants  to  go  too." 

Crittenden  braced  himself  and  looked  up 
with  one  quick  glance  sidewise  at  his  mother's 
face.  It  had  not  changed  a  line. 

"  I  heard  all  you  said  in  the  hallway.     If 
a  son  of  mine  thinks  it  his  duty  to  go,  I  shall 
never  say  one  word  to  dissuade  him — if  he 
is 


Crittenden 

thinks  it  is  his  duty,"  she  added,  so  solemnly 
that  silence  fell  upon  the  three,  and  with  a 
smothered,  "  Good  Lawd,"  at  the  door,  Ben 
hurried  again  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Both  them  boys  was  a-goin'  off  to  git 
killed  an'  ole  Miss  Rachel  not  sayin'  one  wud 
to  keep  'em  back — not  a  wud." 

After  breakfast  the  boy  hurried  out  and,  as 
Crittenden  rose,  the  mother,  who  pretended 
to  be  arranging  silver  at  the  old  sideboard, 
spoke  with  her  back  to  him. 

"  Think  it  over,  son.  I  can't  see  that  you 
should  go,  but  if  you  think  you  ought,  I  shall 
have  nothing  to  say.  Have  you  made  up 
your  mind?  " 

Crittenden  hesitated. 

"  Not  quite." 

"  Think  it  over  very  carefully,  then — 
please — for  my  sake."  Her  voice  trembled, 
and,  with  a  pang,  Crittenden  thought  of  the 
suffering  she  had  known  from  one  war.  Ba 
sil's  way  was  clear,  and  he  could  never  ask  the 
boy  to  give  up  to  him  because  he  was  the 
elder.  Was  it  fair  to  his  brave  mother  for 
him  to  go,  too — was  it  right? 

"  Yes,  mother,"  he  said,  soberly. 


16 


Ill 


THE  Legion  came  next  morning  and  pitched 
camp  in  a  woodland  of  oak  and  sugar  trees, 
where  was  to  be  voiced  a  patriotic  welcome  by 
a  great  editor,  a  great  orator,  and  young  Crit- 
tenden. 

Before  noon,  company  streets  were  laid 
out  and  lined  with  tents  and,  when  the  first 
buggies  and  rockaways  began  to  roll  in  from 
the  country,  every  boy-soldier  was  brushed 
and  burnished  to  defy  the  stare  of  inspection 
and  to  quite  dazzle  the  eye  of  masculine  envy 
or  feminine  admiration. 

In  the  centre  of  the  woodland  was  a  big 
auditorium,  where  the  speaking  was  to  take 
place.  After  the  orators  were  done,  there  was 
to  be  a  regimental  review  in  the  bluegrass 
pasture  in  front  of  historic  Ashland.  It  was 
at  the  Colonel's  tent,  where  Crittenden  went 
to  pay  his  respects,  that  he  found  Judith  Page, 
and  he  stopped  for  a  moment  under  an  oak, 
taking  in  the  gay  party  of  women  and  officers 
who  sat  and  stood  about  the  entrance.  In  the 
17 


Crittenden 

centre  of  the  group,  stood  a  lieutenant  in  the 
blue  of  a  regular  and  with  the  crossed 
sabres  of  the  cavalryman  on  his  neck-band  and 
the  number  of  his  regiment.  The  girl  was 
talking  to  the  gallant  old  Colonel  with  her 
back  to  Crittenden,  but  he  would  have  known 
her  had  he  seen  but  an  arm,  a  shoulder,  the 
poise  of  her  head,  a  single  gesture — although 
he  had  not  seen  her  for  years.  The  figure 
was  the  same* — a  little  fuller,  perhaps,  but 
graceful,  round,  and  slender,  as  was  the  throat. 
The  hair  was  a  trifle  darker,  he  thought,  but 
brown  still,  and  as  rich  \vith  gold  as  autumn 
sunlight.  The  profile  was  in  outline  now — 
it  was  more  cleanly  cut  than  ever.  The  face 
was  a  little  older,  but  still  remarkably  girlish 
in  spite  of  its  maturer  strength;  and  as  she 
turned  to  answer  his  look,  he  kept  on  uncon 
sciously  reaffirming  to  his  memory  the  broad 
brow  and  deep  clear  eyes,  even  while  his 
hand  was  reaching  for  the  brim  of  his  hat. 
She  showed  only  gracious  surprise  at  seeing 
him  and,  to  his  wonder,  he  was  as  calm  and 
cool  as  though  he  were  welcoming  back  home 
any  good  friend  who  had  been  away  a  long 
time.  He  could  now  see  that  the  lieutenant 
belonged  to  the  Tenth  United  States  Cavalry; 
18 


Crittenden 

he  knew  that  the  Tenth  was  a  colored  regi 
ment;  he  understood  a  certain  stiffness  that 
he  felt  rather  than  saw  in  the  courtesy  that 
was  so  carefully  shown  him  by  the  Southern 
volunteers  who  were  about  him;  and  he  turned 
away  to  avoid  meeting  him.  For  the  same 
reason,  he  fancied,  Judith  turned,  too.  The 
mere  idea  of  negro  soldiers  was  not  only  re 
pugnant  to  him,  but  he  did  not  believe  in 
negro  regiments.  These  would  be  the  men 
who  could  and  would  organize  and  drill  the 
blacks  in  the  South;  who,  in  other  words, 
would  make  possible,  hasten,  and  prolong  the 
race  war  that  sometimes  struck  him  as  inevi 
table.  As  he  turned,  he  saw  a  tall,  fine-looking 
negro,  fifty  yards  away,  in  the  uniform  of  a 
sergeant  of  cavalry  and  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  gaping  darkies,  whom  he  was  ha 
ranguing  earnestly.  Lieutenant  and  sergeant 
were  evidently  on  an  enlisting  tour. 

Just  then,  a  radiant  little  creature  looked 
up  into  Crittenden's  face,  calling  him  by 
name  and  holding  out  both  hands — Phyllis, 
Basil's  little  sweetheart.  With  her  was  a  tall, 
keen-featured  fellow,  whom  she  introduced  as 
a  war  correspondent  and  a  Northerner. 

"  A  sort  of  war  correspondent,"  corrected 
19 


Crittenden 

Grafton,  with  a  swift  look  of  interest  at  Crit 
tenden,  but  turning  his  eyes  at  once  back  to 
Phyllis.  She  was  a  new  and  diverting  type 
to  the  Northern  man  and  her  name  was  fitting 
and  pleased  him.  A  company  passed  just 
then,  and  a  smothered  exclamation  from 
Phyllis  turned  attention  to  it.  On  the  end  of 
the  line,  with  his  chin  in,  his  shoulders 
squared,  and  his  eyes  straight  forward,  was 
Crittenden's  warrior-brother,  Basil.  Only  his 
face  colored  to  show  that  he  knew  where  he 
was  and  who  was  looking  at  him,  but  not  so 
much  as  a  glance  of  his  eye  did  he  send  to 
ward  the  tent.  Judith  turned  to  Crittenden 
quickly : 

"  Your  little  brother  is  going  to  the  war?  " 
The  question  was  thoughtless  and  significant, 
for  it  betrayed  to  him  what  was  going  on  in 
her  mind,  and  she  knew  it  and  colored,  as  he 
paled  a  little. 

"  My  little  brother  is  going  to  the  war,"  he 
repeated,  looking  at  her.  Judith  smiled  and 
went  on  bravely: 

"  And  you? " 

Crittenden,  too,  smiled. 

"  I  may  consider  it  my  duty  to  stay  at 
home." 

20 


Crittenden 

The  girl  looked  rather  surprised — instead 
of  showing  the  subdued  sarcasm  that  he  was 
looking  for — and,  in  truth,  she  was.  His 
evasive  and  careless  answer  showed  an  indif 
ference  to  her  wish  and  opinion  in  the  matter 
that  would  once  have  been  very  unusual. 
Straightway  there  was  a  tug  at  her  heart 
strings  that  also  was  unusual. 

The  people  were  gathering  into  the  open- 
air  auditorium  now  and,  from  all  over  the 
camp,  the  crowd  began  to  move  that  way.  All 
knew  the  word  of  the  orator's  mouth  and  the 
word  of  the  editor — they  had  heard  the  one 
and  had  seen  the  other  on  his  printed  page 
many  times;  and  it  was  for  this  reason,  per 
haps,  that  Crittenden's  fresh  fire  thrilled  and 
swayed  the  crowd  as  it  did. 

When  he  rose,  he  saw  his  mother  almost 
under  him  and,  not  far  behind  her,  Judith 
with  her  father,  Judge  Page.  The  lieutenant 
of  regulars  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
crowd,  and  to  his  right  was  Grafton,  also 
standing,  writh  his  hat  under  his  arm — idly 
curious.  But  it  was  to  his  mother  that  he 
spoke  and,  steadfastly,  he  saw  her  strong,  gen 
tle  face  even  when  he  was  looking  far  over 
her  head,  and  he  knew  that  she  knew  that  he 
21 


Crittenden 

was  arguing  the  point  then  and  there  between 
them. 

It  was,  he  said,  the  first  war  of  its  kind  in 
history.  It  marked  an  epoch  in  the  growth 
of  national  character  since  the  world  began. 
As  an  American,  he  believed  that  no  finger 
of  mediaevalism  should  so  much  as  touch  this 
hemisphere.  The  Cubans  had  earned  their 
freedom  long  since,  and  the  cries  of  starving 
women  and  children  for  the  bread  which 
fathers  and  brothers  asked  but  the  right  to 
earn  must  cease.  To  put  out  of  mind  the 
Americans  blown  to  death  at  Havana — if 
such  a  thing  were  possible — he  yet  believed 
with  all  his  heart  in  the  war.  He  did  not 
think  there  would  be  much  of  a  fight — the 
regular  army  could  doubtless  take  good  care 
of  the  Spaniard — but  if  everybody  acted  on 
that  presumption,  there  would  be  no  answer 
to  the  call  for  volunteers.  He  was  proud  to 
think  that  the  Legion  of  his  own  State,  that 
in  itself  stood  for  the  reunion  of  the  North 
and  the  South,  had  been  the  first  to  spring  to 
arms.  And  he  was  proud  to  think  that  not 
even  they  were  the  first  Kentuckians  to 
fight  for  Cuban  liberty.  He  was  proud  that, 
before  the  Civil  War  even,  a  Kentuckian  of 

22 


Crittenden 

his  own  name  and  blood  had  led  a  band  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  brave  men  of  his  own 
State  against  Spanish  tyranny  in  Cuba,  and  a 
Crittenden,  with  fifty  of  his  followers,  were 
captured  and  shot  in  platoons  of  six. 

"  A  Kentuckian  kneels  only  to  woman  and 
his  God,"  this  Crittenden  had  said  proudly 
when  ordered  to  kneel  blindfolded  and  with 
his  face  to  the  wall,  "  and  always  dies  facing 
his  enemy."  And  so  those  Kentuckians  had 
died  nearly  half  a  century  before,  and  he 
knew  that  the  young  Kentuckians  before  him 
would  as  bravely  die,  if  need  be,  in  the  same 
cause  now;  and  when  they  came  face  to  face 
with  the  Spaniard  they  would  remember  the 
shattered  battle-ship  in  the  Havana  harbor, 
and  something  more — they  would  remember 
Crittenden.  And  then  the  speaker  closed 
with  the  words  of  a  certain  proud  old  Con 
federate  soldier  to  his  son : 

"  No  matter  who  was  right  and  who  was 
wrong  in  the  Civil  AVar,  the  matter  is  settled 
now  by  the  sword.  The  Constitution  left  the 
question  open,  but  it  is  written  there  now  in 
letters  of  blood.  We  have  given  our  word 
that  they  shall  stand;  and  remember  it  is  the 
word  of  gentlemen  arid  binding  on  their  sons. 
23 


Crittenden 

There  have  been  those  in  the  North  who  have 
doubted  that  word;  there  have  been  those  in 
the  South  who  have  given  cause  for  doubt; 
and  this  may  be  true  for  a  long  time.  But  if 
ever  the  time  comes  to  test  that  word,  do  you 
be  the  first  to  prove  it.  You  will  fight  for 
your  flag — mine  now  as  well  as  yours — just  as 
sincerely  as  I  fought  against  it."  And  these 
words,  said  Crittenden  in  a  trembling  voice, 
the  brave  gentleman  spoke  again  on  his  death 
bed;  and  now,  as  he  looked  around  on  the 
fearless  young  faces  about  him,  he  had  no 
need  to  fear  that  they  were  spoken  in  vain. 

And  so  the  time  was  come  for  the  South  to 
prove  its  loyalty — not  to  itself,  nor  to  the 
North,  but  to  the  world. 

Under  him  he  saw  his  mother's  eyes  fill 
with  tears,  for  these  words  of  her  son  were 
the  dying  words  of  her  lion-hearted  husband. 
And  Judith  had  sat  motionless,  watching  him 
with  peculiar  intensity  and  flushing  a  little, 
perhaps  at  the  memory  of  her  jesting  taunt, 
while  Grafton  had  stood  still — his  eyes  fixed, 
his  face  earnest — missing  not  a  word.  He 
was  waiting  for  Crittenden,  and  he  held  his 
hand  out  when  the  latter  emerged  from  the 
crowd,  with  the  curious  embarrassment  that 
24 


Crittenden 

assails  the  newspaper  man  when  he  finds  him 
self  betrayed  into  unusual  feeling. 

"  I  say,"  he  said;  "  that  was  good,  good!  " 
The  officer  who,  too,  had  stood  still  as  a 
statue,  seemed  to  be  moving  toward  him,  and 
again  Crittenden  turned  away — to  look  for  his 
mother.  She  had  gone  home  at  once — she 
could  not  face  him  now  in  that  crowd — and 
as  he  was  turning  to  his  own  buggy,  he  saw 
Judith  and  from  habit  started  toward  her, 
but,  changing  his  mind,  he  raised  his  hat  and 
kept  on  his  way,  while  the  memory  of  the 
girl's  face  kept  pace  with  him. 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  a  curious  wist- 
fulness  that  was  quite  beyond  him  to  interpret 
— a  wistfulness  that  was  in  the  sudden  smile 
of  welcome  when  she  saw  him  start  toward  her 
and  in  the  startled  flush  of  surprise  when  he 
stopped ;  then,  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  he  saw 
the  quick  paleness  that  followed  as  the  girl's 
sensitive  nostrils  quivered  once  and  her  spir 
ited  face  settled  quickly  into  a  proud  calm. 
And  then  he  saw  her  smile — a  strange  little 
smile  that  may  have  been  at  herself  or  at  him 
— and  he  wondered  about  it  all  and  was 
tempted  to  go  back,  but  kept  on  doggedly, 
wondering  at  her  and  at  himself  with  a  miser- 


Crittenden 

able  grim  satisfaction  that  he  was  at  last  over 
and  above  it  all.  She  had  told  him  to  conquer 
his  boyish  love  for  her  and,  as  her  will  had 
always  been  law  to  him,  he  had  made  it,  at 
last,  a  law  in  this.  The  touch  of  the  loadstone 
that  never  in  his  life  had  failed,  had  failed 
now,  and  now,  for  once  in  his  life,  desire  and 
duty  were  one. 

He  found  his  mother  at  her  seat  by  her 
open  window,  the  unopened  buds  of  her 
favorite  roses  hanging  motionless  in  the  still 
air  outside,  but  giving  their  fresh  green  faint 
fragrance  to  the  whole  room  within;  and  he 
remembered  the  quiet  sunset  scene  every 
night  for  many  nights  to  come.  Every  line 
in  her  patient  face  had  been  traced  there  by  a 
sorrow  of  the  old  war,  and  his  voice  trembled : 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  as  he  bent  down  and 
kissed  her,  "  I'm  going." 

Her  head  dropped  quickly  to  the  work  in 
her  lap,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  he  went 
quickly  out  again. 


26 


IV 


IT  was  growing  dusk  outside.  Chickens 
were  going  to  roost  with  a  great  chattering 
in  some  locust-trees  in  one  corner  of  the  yard. 
An  aged  darkey  was  swinging  an  axe  at  the 
woodpile  and  two  little  pickaninnies  were 
gathering  a  basket  of  chips.  Already  the  air 
was  filled  with  the  twilight  sounds  of  the  farm 
—the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of  calves  at 
the  cowpens,  the  bleat  of  sheep  from  the  woods, 
and  the  nicker  of  horses  in  the  barn.  Through 
it  all,  Crittenden  could  hear  the  nervous 
thud  of  Raincrow's  hoofs  announcing  rain— 
for  that  was  the  way  the  horse  got  his  name, 
being  as  black  as  a  crow  and,  as  Bob  claimed, 
always  knowing  when  falling  weather  was  at 
hand  and  speaking  his  prophecy  by  stamping 
in  his  stall.  He  could  hear  Basil  noisily  mak 
ing  his  way  to  the  barn.  As  he  walked  through 
the  garden  toward  the  old  family  graveyard, 
he  could  still  hear  the  boy,  and  a  prescient  tithe 
of  the  pain,  that  he  felt  would  strike  him  in 
27 


Crittenden 

full  some  day,  smote  him  so  sharply  now  that 
he  stopped  a  moment  to  listen,  with  one  hand 
quickly  raised  to  his  forehead.  Basil  was 
whistling — whistling  joyously.  Foreboding 
touched  the  boy  like  the  brush  of  a  bird's 
wing,  and  death  and  sorrow  were  as  remote 
as  infinity  to  him.  At  the  barn-door  the  lad 
called  sharply: 

"Bob!" 

"  Suh !  "  answered  a  muffled  voice,  and 
Bob  emerged,  gray  with  oatdust. 

"  I  want  my  buggy  to-night."  Bob  grinned. 

"Sidebar?" 

"  Yes." 

"  New  whip — new  harness — little  buggy 
mare — reckon? " 

"  I  want  'em  all." 

Bob  laughed  loudly.  "  Oh,  I  know.  You 
gwine  to  see  Miss  Phyllis  dis  night,  slio — yes, 
Lawd!  "  Bob  dodged  a  kick  from  the  toe  of 
the  boy's  boot — a  playful  kick  that  was  not 
meant  to  land — and  went  into  the  barn  and 
came  out  again. 

'  Yes,  an'  I  know  somewhur  else  you  gwine 
—you  gwine  to  de  war.  Oh,  I  know;  yes,  suh. 
Dere's  a  white  man  in  town  tryin'  to  git  nig 
gers  to  'list  wid  him,  an'  he's  got  a  nigger  sojer 
28 


Crittenden 

what  say  he's  a  officer  hisself ;  yes,  mon,  a  cor- 
pril.  An'  dis  nigger's  jes  a-gwine  through 
town  drawin'  niggers  right  an'  left.  lie  talk 
to  me,  but  I  jes  laugh  at  him  an'  say  I  gwine 
wid  Ole  Cap'n  ur  Young  Cap'n,  I  don't  keer 
which.  An'  lemme  tell  you,  Young  Cap'n,  ef 
you  ur  Ole  Cap'n  doan  leinme  go  wid  you,  I'se 
gwine  wid  dat  nigger  corpril  an'  dat  white 
man  what  'long  to  a  nigger  regiment,  an'  I 
know  you  don't  want  me  to  bring  no  sech 
disgrace  on  de  fambly  dat  way — no,  suh.  He 
axe  whut  you  de  cap'n  of,"  Bob  went  on,  aim 
ing  at  two  birds  with  one  stone  now,  "  an'  I 
say  you  de  cap'n  of  ever'body  an'  ever'ting 
dat  come  'long — dat's  what  I  say — an'  he  be 
cap'n  of  you  wid  all  yo'  unyform  and  sich,  I 
say,  if  you  jes  come  out  to  de  fahm — yes,  mon, 
dat  he  will  sho." 

The  boy  laughed  and  Bob  reiterated: 

"  Oh,  I'se  gwine — I'se  gwine  wid  you — 
Then  he  stopped  short.     The  turbaned  figure 
of   Aunt   Keziah    loomed   from    behind   the 
woodpile. 

"  What  dat  I  heah  'bout  you  gwine  to  de 
wah,  nigger,  what  dat  I  heah?  " 

Bob  laughed — but  it  was  a  laugh  of  propi 
tiation. 

29 


Crittenden 

"  Law,  mammy,  I  was  jes  projeckin'  wid 
Young  Cap'n." 

"  Fool  nigger,  doan  know  what  wan  is — 
doan  lemme  heah  you  talk  no  more  'bout 
gwine  to  de  wah  ur  I  gwine  to  wa'r  you  out 
wid  a  hickory — dat's  whut  I'll  do — now  you 
min'."  She  turned  on  Basil  then;  but  Basil 
had  retreated,  and  his  laugh  rang  from  the 
darkening  yard.  She  cried  after  him: 

"  An'  doan  lemme  heah  you  puttin'  dis  fool 
nigger  up  to  gittin'  hisself  killed  by  dem 
Cubians  neither;  no  suh!  "  She  was  deadly 
serious  now.  "  I  done  spanked  you  heap  o' 
times,  an'  'tain't  so  long  ago,  an'  you  ain'  too 
big  yit;  no,  suL."  The  old  woman's  wrath 
was  rising  higher,  and  Bob  darted  into  the 
barn  before  she  could  turn  back  again  to  him, 
and  a  moment  later  darted  his  head,  like  a 
woodpecker,  out  again  to  see  if  she  were  gone, 
and  grinned  silently  after  her  as  she  rolled 
angrily  toward  the  house,  scolding  both  Bob 
and  Basil  to  herself  loudly. 

A  song  rose  from  the  cowpens  just  then. 
Full,  clear,  and  quivering,  it  seemed  suddenly 
to  still  everything  else  into  silence.  In  a 
flash,  Bob's  grin  settled  into  a  look  of  sullen 
dejection,  and,  with  his  ear  cocked  and  drink- 
30 


Crittenden 

ing  in  the  song,  and  with  his  eye  on  the  corner 
of  the  barn,  he  waited.  From  the  cowpens 
was  coming  a  sturdy  negro  girl  with  a  bucket 
of  foaming  milk  in  each  hand  and  a  third 
balanced  on  her  head,  singing  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  lungs.  In  a  moment  she 
passed  the  corner. 

"  Molly— say,  Molly." 

The  song  stopped  short. 

"  Say,  honey,  wait  a  minute — jes  a  minute, 
won't  ye?"  The  milkmaid  kept  straight 
ahead,  and  Bob's  honeyed  words  soured  sud 
denly. 

"  Go  on,  gal,  think  yo'self  mighty  fine, 
don't  ye?  Xem' min'!  " 

Molly's  nostrils  swelled  to  their  full  width, 
and,  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  she  began  again. 

"  Go  on,  nigger,  but  you  jes  wait." 

Molly  sang  on: 

"Take  up  yo'  cross,   oh,   sinner-man." 

Before  he  knew  it,  Bob  gave  the  response 
with  great  unction: 

"Yes,   Lawd." 

Then  he  stopped  short. 
"  I  reckon  I  got  to  break  dai  gal's  head 
31 


Crittenden 

some  day.  Yessuh;  she  knows  whut  my 
cross  is,"  and  then  he  started  slowly  after  her, 
shaking  his  head  and,  as  his  wont  was,  talking 
to  himself. 

He  was  still  talking  to  himself  when  Basil 
came  out  to  the  stiles  after  supper  to  get  into 
his  buggy. 

"  Young  Cap'n,  dat  gal  Molly  mighty  nigh 
pesterin'  de  life  out  o'  me.  I  done  tol'  her  I'se 
gwine  to  de  wah." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  De  fool  nigger — she  jes  laughed — she  jes 
laughed." 

The  boy,  too,  laughed  as  he  gathered  the 
reins  and  the  mare  sprang  forward. 

"  We'll  see— we'll  see." 

And  Bob  with  a  triumphant  snort  turned 
toward  Molly's  cabin. 

The  locust-trees  were  quiet  now  and  the 
barn  was  still  except  for  the  occasional  stamp 
of  a  horse  in  his  stall  or  the  squeak  of  a  pig 
that  was  pushed  out  of  his  warm  place  by 
a  stronger  brother.  The  night  noises  were 
strong  and  clear — the  cricket  in  the  grass, 
the  croaking  frogs  from  the  pool,  the  whir  of 
a  night-hawk's  wings  along  the  edge  of  the 
yard,  the  persistent  wail  of  a  whip-poor-will 
32 


Crittenden 

sitting  lengthwise  of  a  willow  limb  over  the 
meadow-branch,  the  occasional  sleepy  caw  of 
crows  from  their  roost  in  the  woods  beyond, 
the  bark  of  a  house-dog  at  a  neighbor's  home 
across  the  fields,  and,  farther  still,  the  fine 
high  yell  of  a  fox-hunter  and  the  faint  an 
swering  yelp  of  a  hound. 

And  inside,  in  the  mother's  room,  the  cur 
tain  was  rising  on  a  tragedy  that  was  tearing 
open  the  wounds  of  that  other  war — the  trag 
edy  upon  which  a  bloody  curtain  had  fallen 
more  than  thirty  years  before.  The  mother 
listened  quietly,  as  had  her  mother  before  her, 
while  the  son  spoke  quietly,  for  time  and 
again  he  had  gone  over  the  ground  to  himself, 
ending  ever  with  the  same  unalterable  re 
solve. 

There  had  been  a  Crittenden  in  every  war 
of  the  nation — down  to  the  two  Crittendens 
who  slept  side  by  side  in  the  old  graveyard 
below  the  garden. 

And  the  Crittendeu  —  of  whom  he  had 
spoken  that  morning — the  gallant  Crittenden 
who  led  his  Kentuckians  to  death  in  Cuba,  in 
1851,  was  his  father's  elder  brother.  And 
again  he  repeated  the  dying  old  Confederate's 
deathless  words  with  which  he  had  thrilled 
33 


Crittenden 

the  Legion  that  morning — words  heard  by 
her  own  ears  as  well  as  his.  "What  else  was 
left  him  to  do — when  he  knew  what  those 
three  brothers,  if  they  were  alive,  would  have 
him  do? 

And  there  were  other  untold  reasons,  hid 
in  the  core  of  his  own  heart,  faced  only  when 
he  was  alone,  and  faced  again,  that  night, 
after  he  had  left  his  mother  and  was  in  his 
own  room  and  looking  out  at  the  moonlight 
and  the  big  weeping  willow  that  drooped 
over  the  one  white  tomb  under  which  the  two 
brothers,  who  had  been  enemies  in  the  battle, 
slept  side  by  side  thus  in  peace.  So  far  he 
had  followed  in  their  footsteps,  since  the  one 
part  that  he  was  fitted  to  play  was  the  role 
they  and  their  ancestors  had  played  beyond 
the  time  when  the  first  American  among 
them,  failing  to  rescue  his  king  from  Caris- 
brooke  Castle,  set  sail  for  Virginia  on  the  very 
day  Charles  lost  his  royal  head.  But  for  the 
Civil  War,  Crittenden  would  have  played 
that  role  worthily  and  without  question  to 
the  end.  With  the  close  of  the  war,  however, 
his  birthright  was  gone — even  before  he  was 
born — and  yet,  as  he  grew  to  manhood,  he 
had  gone  on  in  the  serene  and  lofty  way  of 

34 


Crittenden 

his  father — there  was  nothing  else  he  could 
do — playing  the  gentleman  still,  though  with 
each  year  the  audience  grew  more  restless  and 
the  other  and  lesser  actors  in  the  drama  of 
Southern  reconstruction  more  and  more  re 
sented  the  particular  claims  of  the  star.  At 
last,  came  with  a  shock  the  realization  that  with 
the  passing  of  the  war  his  occupation  had  for 
ever  gone.  And  all  at  once,  out  on  his  an 
cestral  farm  that  had  carried  its  name  Cane- 
wood  down  from  pioneer  days ;  that  had  never 
been  owned  by  a  white  man  who  was  not  a 
Crittenden;  that  was  isolated,  and  had  its 
slaves  and  the  children  of  those  slaves  still  as 
servants;  that  still  clung  rigidly  to  old  tradi 
tions — social,  agricultural,  and  patriarchal — 
out  there  Crittenden  found  himself  one 
day  alone.  His  friends — even  the  boy,  his 
brother — had  caught  the  modern  trend  of 
things  quicker  than  he,  and  most  of  them  had 
gone  to  work — some  to  law,  some  as  clerks, 
railroad  men,  merchants,  civil  engineers; 
some  to  mining  and  speculating  in  the  State's 
own  rich  mountains.  Of  course,  he  had 
studied  law — his  type  of  Southerner  always 
studies  law — and  he  tried  the  practice  of  it. 
He  had  too  much  self-confidence,  perhaps, 
35 


Crittenden 

based  on  his  own  brilliant  record  as  a  college 
orator,  and  he  never  got  over  the  humiliation 
of  losing  his  first  case,  being  handled  like 
putty  by  a  small,  black-eyed  youth  of  his  own 
age,  who  had  come  from  nowhere  and 
had  passed  up  through  a  philanthropical  old 
judge's  office  to  the  dignity,  by  and  by,  of  a 
license  of  his  own.  Losing  the  suit,  through 
some  absurd  little  technical  mistake,  Critten 
den  not  only  declined  a  fee,  but  paid  the  judg 
ment  against  his  client  out  of  his  own  pocket 
and  went  home  with  a  wound  to  his  foolish, 
sensitive  pride  for  which  there  was  no  quick 
cure.  A  little  later,  he  went  to  the  moun 
tains,  when  those  wonderful  hills  first  began 
to  give  up  their  wealth  to  the  world;  but  the 
pace  was  too  swift,  competition  was  too  un 
dignified  and  greedy,  and  business  was  won 
on  too  low  a  plane.  After  a  year  or  two  of 
rough  life,  which  helped  him  more  than  he 
knew,  until  long  afterward,  he  went  home. 
Politics  he  had  not  yet  tried,  and  politics  he 
was  now  persuaded  to  try.  He  made  a  brill 
iant  canvass,  but  another  element  than  ora 
tory  had  crept  in  as  a  new  factor  in  political 
success.  His  opponent,  Wharton,  the  wretch 
ed  little  lawyer  who  had  bested  him  once  be- 
36 


Crittenden 

fore,  bested  him  now,  and  the  weight  of  the 
last  straw  fell  crushingly.  It  was  no  use. 
The  little  touch  of  magic  that  makes  success 
seemed  to  have  been  denied  him  at  birth,  and, 
therefore,  deterioration  began  to  set  in — the 
deterioration  that  comes  from  idleness,  from 
energy  that  gets  the  wrong  vent,  from  strong 
passions  that  a  definite  purpose  would  have 
kept  under  control— and  the  worse  elements 
of  a  nature  that,  at  the  bottom,  was  true  and 
fine,  slowly  began  to  take  possession  of  him 
as  weeds  will  take  possession  of  an  abandoned 
field. 

But  even  then  nobody  took  him  as  seriously 
as  he  took  himself.  So  that  while  he  fell 
just  short,  in  his  own  eyes,  of  everything  that 
was  worth  while;  of  doing  something  and  be 
ing  something  worth  while;  believing  some 
thing  that  made  the  next  world  worth  while; 
or  gaining  the  love  of  a  woman  that  would 
have  made  this  life  worth  while — in  the  eyes 
of  his  own  people  he  was  merely  sowing  his 
wild  oats  after  the  fashion  of  his  race,  and 
would  settle  down,  after  the  same  fashion,  by 
and  by — that  was  the  indulgent  summary  of 
his  career  thus  far.  He  had  been  a  brilliant 
student  in  the  old  university  and,  in  a  desul- 
37 


Crittenden 

tory  way,  he  was  yet.  He  had  worried  his 
professor  of  metaphysics  by  puzzling  ques 
tions  and  keen  argument  until  that  philoso 
pher  was  glad  to  mark  him  highest  in  his 
class  and  let  him  go.  He  surprised  the  old 
lawyers  when  it  came  to  a  discussion  of  the 
pure  theory  of  law,  and,  on  the  one  occasion 
when  his  mother's  pastor  came  to  see  him,  he 
disturbed  that  good  man  no  little,  and  closed 
his  lips  against  further  censure  of  him  in  pul 
pit  or  in  private.  So  that  all  that  was  said 
against  him  by  the  pious  was  that  he  did  not 
go  to  church  as  he  should;  and  by  the  thought 
ful,  that  he  was  making  a  shameful  waste  of 
the  talents  that  the  Almighty  had  showered 
so  freely  down  upon  him.  And  so  without 
suffering  greatly  in  public  estimation,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  ideals  of  Southern  life 
were  changing  fast,  he  passed  into  the  old- 
young  period  that  is  the  critical  time  in  the 
lives  of  men  like  him — when  he  thought  he 
had  drunk  his  cup  to  the  dregs;  had  run  the 
gamut  of  human  experience;  that  nothing 
was  left  to  his  future  but  the  dull  repetition 
of  his  past.  Only  those  who  knew  him  best 
had  not  given  up  hope  of  him,  nor  had  he 
really  given  up  hope  of  himself  as  fully  as  he 
38 


Crittenden 

thought.  The  truth  was,  he  never  fell  far, 
nor  for  long,  and  he  always  rose  with  the  old 
purpose  the  same,  even  if  it  stirred  him  each 
time  with  less  and  less  enthusiasm — and  al 
ways  with  the  beacon-light  of  one  star  shining 
from  his  past,  even  though  each  time  it  shone 
a  little  more  dimly.  For  usually,  of  course, 
there  is  the  hand  of  a  woman  on  the  lever  that 
prizes  such  a  man's  life  upward,  and  when 
Judith  Page's  clasp  loosened  on  Crittenden, 
the  castle  that  the  lightest  touch  of  her  finger 
raised  in  his  imagination — that  he,  doubtless, 
would  have  reared  for  her  and  for  him,  in 
fact,  fell  in  quite  hopeless  ruins,  and  no  simi 
lar  shape  was  ever  framed  for  him  above  its 
ashes. 

It  was  the  simplest  and  oldest  of  stories  be 
tween  the  two — a  story  that  began,  doubt 
less,  with  the  beginning,  and  will  never  end 
as  long  as  two  men  and  one  woman,  or  two 
women  and  one  man  are  left  on  earth — the 
story  of  the  love  of  one  who  loves  another. 
Only,  to  the  sufferers  the  tragedy  is  always 
as  fresh  as  a  knife-cut,  and  forever  new. 

Judith  cared  for  nobody.  Crittenden 
laughed  and  pleaded,  stormed,  sulked,  and 
upbraided,  and  was  devoted  and  indifferent 
39 


Crittenden 

for  years — like  the  wilful,  passionate  young 
ster  that  he  was — until  Judith  did  love  an 
other — what  other,  Crittenden  never  knew. 
And  then  he  really  believed  that  he  must,  as 
she  had  told  him  so  often,  conquer  his  love  for 
her.  And  he  did,  at  a  fearful  cost  to  the  best 
that  was  in  him — foolishly,  but  consciously, 
deliberately.  When  the  reaction  came,  he 
tried  to  re-establish  his  relations  to  a  world 
that  held  no  Judith  Page.  Her  absence  gave 
him  help,  and  he  had  done  very  well,  in  spite 
of  an  occasional  relapse.  It  was  a  relapse 
that  had  sent  him  to  the  mountains,  six  weeks 
before,  and  he  had  emerged  with  a  clear  eye, 
a  clear  head,  steady  nerves,  and  with  the  one 
thing  that  he  had  always  lacked,  waiting  for 
him — a  purpose.  It  was  little  wonder,  then, 
that  the  first  ruddy  flash  across  a  sky  that  had 
been  sunny  with  peace  for  thirty  years  and 
more,  thrilled  him  like  an  electric  charge 
from  the  very  clouds.  The  next  best  thing 
to  a  noble  life  was  a  death  that  was  noble,  and 
that  was  possible  to  any  man  in  war.  One 
war  had  taken  away — another  might  give 
back  again;  and  his  chance  was  come  at  last. 

It  was  midnight  now,  and  far  across  the 
fields  came  the  swift  faint  beat  of  a  horse's 
40 


Crittenden 

hoofs  on  the  turnpike.  A  moment  later  he 
could  hear  the  hum  of  wheels — it  was  his  lit 
tle  brother  coming  home;  nobody  had  a  horse 
that  could  go  like  that,  and  nobody  else  would 
drive  that  way  if  he  had.  Since  the  death  of 
their  father,  thirteen  years  after  the  war,  he 
had  been  father  to  the  boy,  and  time  and  again 
he  had  wondered  now  why  could  he  not  have 
been  like  that  youngster.  Life  wras  an  open 
book  to  the  boy — to  be  read  as  he  ran.  He 
took  it  as  he  took  his  daily  bread,  without 
thought,  without  question.  If  left  alone,  he 
and  the  little  girl  whom  he  had  gone  that 
night  to  see  would  marry,  settle  down,  and  go 
hand  in  hand  into  old  age  without  questioning 
love,  life,  or  happiness.  And  that  was  as  it 
should  be;  and  would  to  Heaven  he  had  been 
born  to  tread  the  self-same  way.  There  was 
a  day  when  he  was  near  it;  when  he  turned 
the  same  fresh,  frank  face  fearlessly  to  the 
world,  when  his  nature  was  as  unspoiled  and 
as  clean,  his  hopes  as  high,  and  his  faith  as 
child-like;  and  once  when  he  ran  across  a  pas 
sage  in  Stevenson  in  which  that  gentle  student 
spoke  of  his  earlier  and  better  self  as  his  "  lit 
tle  brother  "  whom  he  loved  and  longed  for 
and  sought  persistently,  but  who  dropped  far- 
41 


Crittenden 

ther  and  farther  behind  at  times,  until,  in 
moments  of  darkness,  he  sometimes  feared  that 
he  might  lose  him  forever — Crittenden  had 
clung  to  the  phrase,  and  he  had  let  his  fancy 
lead  him  to  regard  this  boy  as  his  early  and 
better  self — better  far  than  he  had  ever  been — 
his  little  brother,  in  a  double  sense,  who  drew 
from  him,  besides  the  love  of  brother  for 
brother  and  father  for  son,  a  tenderness  that 
was  almost  maternal. 

The  pike-gate  slammed  now  and  the  swift 
rush  of  wheels  over  the  bluegrass  turf  fol 
lowed;  the  barn-gate  cracked  sharply  on  the 
night  air  and  Crittenden  heard  him  singing, 
in  the  boyish,  untrained  tenor  that  is  so  com 
mon  in  the  South,  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
love-songs  that  are  still  sung  with  perfect  sin 
cerity  and  without  shame  by  his  people : 

"  You'll  never  find  another  love  like  mine, 
You'll  never  find  a  heart  that's  half  so  true. " 

And  then  the  voice  was  muffled  suddenly.  A 
little  while  later  he  entered  the  yard-gate  and 
stopped  in  the  moonlight  and,  from  his  win 
dow,  Crittenden  looked  down  and  watched 
him.  The  boy  was  going  through  the  man 
ual  of  arms  with  his  buggy-whip,  at  the 
42 


Crittenden 

command  of  an  imaginary  officer,  whom, 
erect  and  martial,  he  was  apparently  looking 
straight  in  the  eye.  Plainly  he  was  a  private 
now.  Suddenly  he  sprang  forward  and  sa 
luted;  he  was  volunteering  for  some  danger 
ous  duty;  and  then  he  walked  on  toward  the 
house.  Again  he  stopped.  Apparently  he 
had  been  promoted  now  for  gallant  conduct, 
for  he  waved  his  whip  and  called  out  with  low, 
sharp  sternness: 

"  Steady,  now!  Ready;  fire!  "  And  then 
swinging  his  hat  over  his  head: 

"  Double  -  quick  —  charge!  "  After  the 
charge,  he  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  the 
stiles,  looking  up  at  the  moon,  and  then  came 
on  toward  the  house,  singing  again: 

"  You'll  never  find  a  man  in  all  this  world 
Who'll  love  you  half  so  well  as  I  love  you." 

And  inside,  the  mother,  too,  was  listening; 
and  she  heard  the  elder  brother  call  the  boy 
into  his  room  and  the  door  close,  and  she  as  well 
knew  the  theme  of  their  talk  as  though  she 
could  hear  all  they  said.  Her  sons — even  the 
elder  one — did  not  realize  what  war  was;  the 
boy  looked  upon  it  as  a  frolic.  That  was  the 
way  her  two  brothers  had  regarded  the  old  war. 
43 


Crittenden 

They  went  with  the  South,  of  course,  as  did 
her  father  and  her  sweetheart.  And  her 
sweetheart  was  the  only  one  who  came  back, 
and  him  she  married  the  third  month  after 
the  surrender,  when  he  was  so  sick  and  wound 
ed  that  he  could  hardly  stand.  ]STow  she 
must  give  up  all  that  was  left  for  the  North, 
that  had  taken  nearly  all  she  had. 

Was  it  all  to  come  again — the  same  long 
days  of  sorrow,  loneliness,  the  anxious  wait 
ing,  \vaiting,  waiting  to  hear  that  this  one 
was  dead,  and  that  this  one  was  wounded  or 
sick  to  death — would  either  come  back  un 
harmed?  She  knew  now  what  her  own 
mother  must  have  suffered,  and  what  it  must 
have  cost  her  to  tell  her  sons  what  she  had 
told  hers  that  night.  Ah,  God,  was  it  all  to 
come  again? 


44 


V 

SOME  days  later  a  bugle  blast  started  Crit- 
tenden  from  a  soldier's  cot,  when  the  flaps  of 
his  tent  were  yellow  with  the  rising  sun. 
Peeping  between  them,  he  saw  that  only  one 
tent  was  open.  Rivers,  as  acting-quarter 
master,  had  been  up  long  ago  and  gone.  That 
blast  was  meant  for  the  private  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  and  Crittenden  went  back  to  his  cot 
and  slept  on. 

The  day  before  he  had  swept  out  of  the  hills 
again — out  through  a  blossoming  storm  of 
dogwood — but  this  time  southward  bound. 
Incidentally,  he  would  see  unveiled  these  stat 
ues  that  Kentucky  was  going  to  dedicate  to 
her  Federal  and  Confederate  dead.  He 
would  find  his  father's  old  comrade — little 
Jerry  Carter — and  secure  a  commission,  if 
possible.  Meanwhile,  he  would  drill  with  Iliv- 
ers's  regiment,  as  a  soldier  of  the  line. 

At  sunset  he  swept  into  the  glory  of  a 
Southern  spring  and  the  hallowed  haze  of  an 
old  battle-field  where  certain  gallant  Ameri- 
45 


Crittenden 

cans  once  fought  certain  other  gallant  Ameri 
cans  fiercely  forward  and  back  over  some  six 
thousand  acres  of  creek-bottom  and  wooded 
hills,  and  where  Uncle  Sam  was  pitching 
tents  for  his  war-children — children,  too — 
some  of  them — of  those  old  enemies,  but  ready 
to  fight  together  now,  and  as  near  shoulder 
to  shoulder  as  the  modern  line  of  battle  will 
allow. 

Rivers,  bronzed,  quick-tempered,  and  of 
superb  physique,  met  him  at  the  station. 

"  You'll  come  right  out  to  camp  with  me." 

The  town  was  thronged.  There  were  gray 
slouched  hats  everywhere  with  little  brass 
crosses  pinned  to  them — tiny  rifles,  sabres, 
cannon — crosses  that  were  not  symbols  of  re 
ligion,  unless  this  was  a  time  when  the  Mas 
ter's  coming  meant  the  sword.  Under  them 
were  soldiers  with  big  pistols  and  belts  of 
big,  gleaming  cartridges — soldiers,  white  and 
black,  everywhere — swaggering,  ogling,  and 
loud  of  voice,  but  all  good-natured,  orderly. 

Inside  the  hotel  the  lobby  was  full  of  offi 
cers  in  uniform,  scanning  the  yellow  bulletin- 
boards,  writing  letters,  chatting  in  groups; 
gray  veterans  of  horse,  foot,  and  artillery; 
company  officers  in  from  Western  service — 
46 


Crittenden 

quiet  young  men  with  bronzed  faces  and 
keen  eyes,  like  Rivera's — renewing  old  friend 
ships  and  swapping  experiences  on  the 
plains;  subalterns  down  to  the  last  graduat 
ing  class  from  West  Point,  with  slim  waists, 
fresh  faces,  and  nothing  to  swap  yet  but 
memories  of  the  old  school  on  the  Hudson. 
In  there  he  saw  Grafton  again  and  Lieuten 
ant  Sharpe,  of  the  Tenth  Colored  Cavalry, 
whom  he  had  seen  in  the  Bluegrass,  and 
Rivers  introduced  him.  He  was  surprised 
that  Rivers,  though  a  Southerner,  had  so  lit 
tle  feeling  on  the  question  of  negro  soldiers; 
that  many  officers  in  the  negro  regiments 
were  Southern;  that  Southerners  were  pre 
ferred  because  they  understood  the  black 
man,  and,  for  that  reason,  could  better  handle 
him.  Sharpe  presented  both  to  his  father, 
Colonel  Sharpe,  of  the  infantry,  who  was 
taking  credit  to  himself,  that,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  allowed  his  band  to  play 
"  Dixie  "  in  camp  after  the  Southerners  in 
Congress  had  risen  up  and  voted  millions  for 
the  national  defence.  Colonel  Sharpe  spoke 
with  some  bitterness  and  Crittenden  won 
dered.  He  never  dreamed  that  there  was 
any  bitterness  on  the  other  side — why?  How 
47 


Crittenden 

could  a  victor  feel  bitterness  for  a  fallen  foe? 
It  was  the  one  word  lie  heard  or  was  to  hear 
about  the  old  war  from  Federal  or  ex-Con 
federate.  Indeed,  he  mistook  a  short,  stout, 
careless  appointee,  Major  Billings,  with  his 
negro  servant,  his  Southern  mustache  and 
goatee  and  his  pompous  ways,  for  a  genuine 
Southerner,  and  the  Major,  though  from  Ver 
mont,  seemed  pleased. 

But  it  was  to  the  soldier  outside  that  Crit- 
tenden's  heart  had  been  drawn,  for  it  was  his 
first  stirring  sight  of  the  regular  of  his  own 
land,  and  the  soldier  in  him  answered  at  once 
with  a  thrill.  Waiting  for  Rivers,  he  stood 
in  the  door  of  the  hotel,  watching  the  strong 
men  pass,  and  by  and  by  he  saw  three  coming 
down  the  street,  arm  in  arm.  On  the  edge 
of  the  light,  the  middle  one,  a  low,  thick-set, 
black-browed  fellow,  pushed  his  comrades 
away,  fell  drunkenly,  and  slipped  loosely  to 
the  street,  while  the  two  stood  above  him  in 
disgust.  One  of  them  was  a  mere  boy  and 
the  other  was  a  giant,  with  a  lean  face,  so  like 
Lincoln's  that  Crittenden  started  when  the 
boy  called  impatiently: 

"  Pick  him  up,  Abe." 

The  tall  soldier  stooped,  and  with  one  hand 
48 


Crittenden 

lifted  the  drunken  man  as  lightly  as  though 
he  had  been  a  sack  of  wool,  and  the  two  caught 
him  under  the  arms  again.  As  they  came  on, 
both  suddenly  let  go;  the  middle  one  straight 
ened  sharply,  and  all  three  saluted.  Critten 
den  heard  Rivers's  voice  at  his  ear: 

"  Keport  for  this,  Reynolds." 

And  the  drunken  soldier  turned  and  rather 
sullenly  saluted  again. 

"  You'll  come  right  out  to  camp  with  me," 
repeated  Rivers. 

And  now  out  at  the  camp,  next  morning, 
a  dozen  trumpets  were  ringing  out  an  em 
phatic  complaint  into  Crittenden's  sleeping 
ears: 

"  I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 

I  can't  git  'em  up  in  the  mornin', 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 

I  can't  get  'em  up  at  all. 
The  corporal's  worse  than  the  sergeant, 
The  sergeant's  worse  than  the  lieutenant, 
And  the  captain  is  worst  of  all." 

This  is  as  high  up,  apparently,  as  the  pri 
vate  dares  to  go,  unless  he  considers  the  som 
nolent  iniquity  of  the  Colonel  quite  beyond 
the  range  of  the  bugle.     But  the  pathetic  ap- 
49 


Crittenden 

peal  was  too  much  for  Crittenden,  and  he  got 
up,  stepping  into  a  fragrant  foot-bath  of  cold 
dew  and  out  to  a  dapple  gray  wash-basin  that 
sat  on  three  wooden  stakes  just  outside.  Sous 
ing  his  head,  he  sniffed  in  the  chill  air  and, 
looking  below  him,  took  in,  with  pure  mathe 
matical  delight,  the  working  unit  of  the  army 
as  it  came  to  life.  The  very  camp  was  the 
symbol  of  order  and  system:  a  low  hill,  ris 
ing  from  a  tiny  stream  below  him  in  a  series 
of  natural  terraces  to  the  fringe  of  low  pines 
behind  him,  and  on  these  terraces  officers  and 
men  sitting,  according  to  rank;  the  white 
tepees  of  the  privates  and  their  tethered  horses 
— camped  in  column  of  troops — stretching  up 
the  hill  toward  him;  on  the  first  terrace  above 
and  flanking  the  columns,  the  old-fashioned 
army  tents  of  company  officer  and  subaltern 
and  the  guidons  in  line — each  captain  with  his 
lieutenants  at  the  head  of  each  company 
street;  behind  them  and  on  the  next  terrace, 
the  majors  three — each  facing  the  centre  of 
his  squadron.  And  highest  on  top  of  the  hill, 
and  facing  the  centre  of  the  regiment,  the 
slate-colored  tent  of  the  Colonel,  commanding 
every  foot  of  the  camp. 

"  Yes,"   said   a  voice   behind   him,    "  and 
50 


Crittenden 

you'll  find  it  just  that  way  throughout  the 
army." 

Crittenden  turned  in  surprise,  and  the  ubiq 
uitous  Grafton  went  on  as  though  the  little 
trick  of  thought-reading  were  too  unimpor 
tant  for  notice. 

"  Let's  go  down  and  take  a  look  at  things. 
This  is  my  last  day,"  Grafton  went  on, 
"  and  I'm  out  early.  I  go  to  Tampa  to-mor 
row." 

All  the  day  before,  as  he  travelled,  Crit 
tenden  had  seen  the  stations  thronged  with 
eager  countrymen — that  must  have  been  the 
way  it  was  in  the  old  war,  he  thought — and 
swarmed  the  thicker  the  farther  he  went  south. 
And,  now,  as  the  two  started  down  the  hill, 
he  could  see  in  the  dusty  road  that  ran  through 
the  old  battle-field  Southern  interest  and  sym 
pathy  taking  visible  shape.  For  a  hundred 
miles  around,  the  human  swarm  had  risen  from 
the  earth  and  was  moving  toward  him  on  wag 
on,  bicycle,  horse-back,  foot;  in  omnibus,  car 
riage,  cart;  in  barges  on  wheels,  with  project 
ing  additions,  and  other  land-craft  beyond 
classification  or  description.  And  the  people — 
the  American  Southerners ;  rich  whites,  whites 
well-to-do,  poor  white  trash;  good  country 
Si 


Crittenden 

folks,  valley  farmers;  mountaineers — darkies, 
and  the  motley  feminine  horde  that  the  soldier 
draws  the  world  over — all  moving  along  the 
road  as  far  as  he  could  see,  and  interspersed 
here  and  there  in  the  long,  low  cloud  of  dust 
with  a  clanking  troop  of  horse  or  a  red  rum 
bling  battery — all  coming  to  see  the  soldiers 
— the  soldiers! 

And  the  darkies!  How  they  flocked  and 
stared  at  their  soldier-brethren  with  pathetic 
worship,  dumb  admiration,  and,  here  and 
there,  with  a  look  of  contemptuous  resentment 
that  was  most  curious.  And  how  those  dusky 
sons  of  Mars  were  drinking  deep  into  their 
broad  nostrils  the  incense  wafted  to  them 
from  hedge  and  highway. 

For  a  moment  Grafton  stopped  still,  look 
ing. 

"Great!" 

Below  the  Majors'  terrace  stood  an  old 
sergeant,  with  a  gray  mustache  and  a  kind, 
blue  eye.  Each  horse  had  his  nose  in  a 
mouth-bag  and  was  contentedly  munching 
corn,  while  a  trooper  affectionately  curried 
him  from  tip  of  ear  to  tip  of  tail. 

"  Horse  ever  first  and  man  ever  afterward 
is  the  trooper's  law,"  said  Grafton. 
52 


Crittenden 

"  I  suppose  you've  got  the  best  colonel  in 
the  army/'  he  added  to  the  soldier  and  with  a 
wink  at  Crittenden. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  guileless  old  Sergeant, 
quickly,  and  with  perfect  seriousness.  "  We 
have,  sir,  and  I'm  not  sayin'  a  wor-rd  against 
the  rest,  sir." 

The  Sergeant's  voice  was  as  kind  as  his  face, 
and  Graf  ton  soon  learned  that  he  was  called 
"  the  Governor  "  throughout  the  regiment — 
that  he  was  a  Kentuckian  and  a  sharp-shooter. 
He  had  seen  twenty-seven  years  of  service,  and 
his  ambition  had  been  to  become  a  sergeant  of 
ordnance.  He  passed  his  examination  finally, 
but  he  was  then  a  little  too  old.  That  almost 
broke  the  Sergeant's  heart,  but  the  hope  of  a 
fight,  now,  was  fast  healing  it. 

"  I'm  from  Kentucky,  too,"  said  Critten 
den.  The  old  soldier  turned  quickly. 

"  I  knew  you  were,  sir." 

This  was  too  much  for  Grafton.  "  !N"ow- 
how-on-earth —  "  and  then  he  checked  himself 
— it  was  not  his  business. 

"  You're  a  Crittenden." 

"  That's  right,"  laughed  the  Kentuckian. 
The  Sergeant  turned.  A  soldier  came  up  and 
asked  some  trifling  question,  with  a  searching 
53 


Crittenden 

look,  Grafton  observed,  at  Crittenden.  Every 
one  looked  at  that  man  twice,  thought  Graf- 
ton,  and  he  looked  again  himself.  It  was  his 
manner,  his  bearing,  the  way  his  head  was  set 
on  his  shoulders,  the  plastic  force  of  his  strik 
ing  face.  But  Crittenden  saw  only  that  the 
Sergeant  answered  the  soldier  as  though  he 
were  talking  to  a  superior.  He  had  been 
watching  the  men  closely — they  might  be  his 
comrades  some  day — and,  already,  had  no 
ticed,  with  increasing  surprise,  the  character 
of  the  men  whom  he  saw  as  common  soldiers 
— young,  quiet,  and  above  the  average  coun 
tryman  in  address  and  intelligence — and  this 
man's  face  surprised  him  still  more,  as  did  his 
bearing.  His  face  was  dark,  his  eye  was  dark 
and  penetrating  and  passionate;  his  mouth 
was  reckless  and  weak,  his  build  was  graceful, 
and  his  voice  was  low  and  even — the  voice  of 
a  gentleman;  he  was  the  refined  type  of  the 
Western  gentleman-desperado,  as  Crittenden 
had  imagined  it  from  fiction  and  hearsay.  As 
the  soldier  turned  away,  the  old  Sergeant  saved 
him  the  question  he  was  about  to  ask. 

"  He  used  to  be  an  officer." 

"Who  — how's    that?"     asked    Grafton, 
scenting  "  a  story." 

54 


Crittenden 

The  old  Sergeant  checked  himself  at  once, 
and  added  cautiously: 

"  He  was  a  lieutenant  in  this  regiment  and 
he  resigned.  He  just  got  back  to-day,  and  he 
has  enlisted  as  a  private  rather  than  risk  not 
getting  to  Cuba  at  all.  But,  of  course,  he'll 
get  his  commission  back  again."  The  Ser 
geant's  manner  fooled  neither  Grafton  nor 
Crittenden;  both  respected  the  old  Sergeant's 
unwillingness  to  gossip  about  a  man  wrho  had 
been  his  superior,  and  Grafton  asked  no  more 
questions. 

There  was  no  idleness  in  that  camp.  Each 
man  was  busy  within  and  without  the  conical- 
walled  tents  in  which  the  troopers  lie  like  the 
spokes  of  a  wheel,  with  heads  out  like  a  covey 
of  partridges.  Before  one  tent  sat  the  tall 
soldier — Abe — and  the  boy,  his  comrade, 
whom  Crittenden  had  seen  the  night  before. 

"Where's  Keynolds? "  asked  Crittenden, 
smiling. 

"  Guard-house,"  said  the  Sergeant,  shaking 
his  head. 

Xot  a  scrap  of  waste  matter  was  to  be  seen 
anywhere — not   a   piece    of   paper — not   the 
faintest  odor  was  perceptible;  the  camp  was 
as  clean  as  a  Dutch  kitchen. 
55 


Crittenden 

"  And  this  is  a  camp  of  cavalry,  mind  you," 
said  Grafton.  "  Ten  minutes  after  tliey  have 
broken  camp,  you  won't  be  able  to  tell  that 
there  has  been  a  man  or  horse  on  the  ground, 
except  for  the  fact  that  it  will  be  packed  down 
hard  in  places.  And  I  bet  you  that  in  a  month 
they  won't  have  three  men  in  the  hospital." 
The  old  Sergeant  nearly  blushed  with  pleas 
ure. 

"  An'  I've  got  the  best  captain,  too,  sir," 
he  said,  as  they  turned  away,  and  Grafton 
laughed. 

"  That's  the  way  you'll  find  it  all  through 
the  army.  Each  colonel  and  each  captain  is 
always  the  best  to  the  soldier,  and,  by  the 
way,"  he  went  on,  "  do  you  happen  to  know 
about  this  little  United  States  regular  army?  " 

"Not  much." 

"  I  thought  so.  Germany  knows  a  good 
deal — England,  France,  Prussia,  Russia — 
everybody  knows  but  the  American  and  the 
Spaniard.  Just  look  at  these  men.  They're 
young,  strong,  intelligent — bully,  good  Amer 
icans.  It's  an  army  of  picked  men — picked 
for  heart,  body,  and  brain.  Almost  each 
man  is  an  athlete.  It  is  the  finest  body  of 
men  on  God  Almighty's  earth  to-day,  and 
56 


Crittenden 

everybody  on  earth  but  the  American  and  the 
Spaniard  knows  it.  And  how  this  nation  has 
treated  them.  Think  of  that  miserable  Con 
gress —  '  Grafton  waved  his  hands  in  impo 
tent  rage  and  ceased — Rivers  was  calling 
them  from  the  top  of  the  hill. 

So  all  morning  Crittenden  watched  the  reg 
imental  unit  at  work.  lie  took  a  sabre  lesson 
from  the  old  Sergeant.  He  visited  camps  of 
infantry  and  artillery  and,  late  that  after 
noon,  he  sat  on  a  little  wooded  hill,  where  stood 
four  draped,  ghost-like  statues — watching 
these  units  paint  pictures  on  a  bigger  canvas 
below  him,  of  the  army  at  work  as  a  whole. 

Every  green  interspace  below  was  thickly 
dotted  with  tents  and  rising  spirals  of  faint 
smoke;  every  little  plain  was  filled  with  sol 
diers,  at  drill.  Behind  him  wheeled  cannon 
and  caisson  and  men  and  horses,  splashed  with 
prophetic  drops  of  red,  wheeling  at  a  gallop, 
halting,  unlimbering,  loading,  and  firing  im 
aginary  shells  at  imaginary  Spaniards — lim 
bering  and  off  with  a  flash  of  metal,  wheel- 
spoke  and  crimson  trappings  at  a  gallop  again; 
in  the  plain  below  were  regiments  of  infan 
try,  deploying  in  skirmish-line,  advancing  by 
rushes;  beyond  them  sharp-shooters  were  at 
57 


Crittenden 

target  practice,  and  little  bands  of  recruits 
and  awkward  squads  were  everywhere.  In 
front,  rose  cloud  after  cloud  of  dust,  and, 
under  them,  surged  cloud  after  cloud  of 
troopers  at  mounted  drill,  all  making  ready 
for  the  soldier's  work — to  kill  with  mercy  and 
die  without  complaint.  What  a  picture — 
what  a  picture!  And  what  a  rich  earnest  of 
the  sleeping  might  of  the  nation  behind  it  all. 
Just  under  him  was  going  an  "  escort  of  the 
standard,"  which  Le  could  plainly  see.  Across 
the  long  drill-ground  the  regiment — it  was 
Rivers's  regiment — stood,  a  solid  mass  of  si 
lent,  living  statues,  and  it  was  a  brave  sight 
that  came  now — that  flash  of  sabres  along  the 
long  length  of  the  drill-field,  like  one  leaping 
horizontal  flame.  It  was  a  regimental  acknowl 
edgment  of  the  honor  of  presentation  to  the 
standard,  and  Crittenden  raised  his  hat  grave 
ly  in  recognition  of  the  same  honor,  little 
dreaming  that  he  was  soon  to  follow  that 
standard  up  a  certain  Cuban  hill. 

What  a  picture! 

There  the  nation  was  concentrating  its 
power.  Behind  him  that  nation  was  patching 
up  its  one  great  quarrel,  and  now  a  gray  phan 
tom  stalked  out  of  the  past  to  the  music  of 
58 


Crittenden 

drum  and  fife,  and  Crittenden  turned  sharply 
to  see  a  little  body  of  men,  in  queer  uniforms, 
marching  through  a  camp  of  regulars  toward 
him.  They  were  old  boys,  and  they  went 
rather  slowly,  but  they  stepped  jauntily  and, 
in  their  natty  old-fashioned  caps  and  old  gray 
jackets  pointed  into  a  V-shape  behind,  they 
looked  jaunty  in  spite  of  their  years.  Xot  a 
soldier  but  paused  to  look  at  these  men  in 
gray,  who  inarched  thus  proudly  through 
such  a  stronghold  of  blue,  and  were  not 
ashamed.  jSTot  a  man  joked  or  laughed  or 
smiled,  for  all  knew  that  they  were  old  Con 
federates  in  butter-nut,  and  once  fighting-men 
indeed.  All  knew  that  these  men  had  fought 
battles  that  made  scouts  and  Indian  skir 
mishes  and  city  riots  and,  perhaps,  any  battles 
in  store  for  them  with  Spain  but  play  by  con 
trast  for  the  tin  soldier,  upon  whom  the  reg 
ular  smiles  with  such  mild  contempt ;  that  this 
thin  column  had  seen  twice  the  full  muster 
of  the  seven  thousand  strong  encamped  there 
melt  away  upon  that  very  battle-field  in 
a  single  day.  And  so  the  little  remnant 
of  gray  marched  through  an  atmosphere  of 
profound  respect,  and  on  through  a  mist 
of  memories  to  the  rocky  little  point  where 
59 


Crittenden 

the  Federal  Virginian  Thomas — "  The  Rock 
of  Chickamauga  " — stood  against  seventeen 
fierce  assaults  of  hill-swarming  demons  in 
butter-nut,  whose  desperate  valor  has  hardly 
a  parallel  on  earth,  unless  it  then  and  there 
found  its  counterpart  in  the  desperate  courage 
of  the  brothers  in  name  and  race  whose  lives 
they  sought  that  day.  They  were  bound  to 
a  patriotic  love-feast  with  their  old  enemies  in 
blue — these  men  in  gray — to  hold  it  on  the 
hill  around  the  four  bronze  statues  that  Crit- 
tenden's  State  was  putting  up  to  her  sons  who 
fought  on  one  or  the  other  side  on  that  one 
battle-field,  and  Crittenden  felt  a  clutch  at 
his  heart  and  his  eyes  filled  when  the  tattered 
old  flag  of  the  stars  and  bars  trembled  toward 
him.  Under  its  folds  rode  the  spirit  of 
gallant  fraternity — a  little,  old  man  with  a 
grizzled  beard  and  with  stars  on  his  shoulders, 
his  hands  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle, 
his  eyes  lifted  dreamily  upward — they  called 
him  the  "  bee-hunter,"  from  that  habit  of  his 
in  the  old  war — his  father's  old  comrade,  little 
Jerry  Carter.  That  was  the  man  Crittenden 
had  come  South  to  see.  Behind  came  a  car 
riage,  in  which  sat  a  woman  in  widow's  weeds 
and  a  tall  girl  in  gray.  He  did  not  need  to 
60 


Crittenden 

look  again  to  see  that  it  was  Judith,  and,  mo 
tionless,  he  stood  where  he  was  throughout 
the  ceremony,  until  he  saw  the  girl  lift  her 
hand  and  the  veil  fall  away  from  the  bronze 
symbols  of  the  soldier  that  was  in  her  fathers 
and  in  his — stood  resolutely  still,  until  the  gray 
figure  disappeared  and  the  veterans,  blue  and 
gray  intermingled,  marched  away.  The  little 
General  was  the  last  to  leave,  and  he  rode  slow 
ly,  as  if  overcome  with  memories.  Crittenden 
took  off  his  hat  and,  while  he  hesitated,  hard 
ly  knowing  whether  to  make  himself  known  or 
not,  the  little  man  caught  sight  of  him  and 
stopped  short. 

"  Why — why,  bless  my  soul,  aren't  you 
Tom  Crittenden's  son?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Crittenden. 

"  I  knew  it.  Bless  me,  I  was  thinking  of 
him  just  that  moment — naturally  enough — 
and  you  startled  me.  I  thought  it  was  Tom 
himself."  He  grasped  the  Kentuckian's  hand 
warmly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  studying  his  face.  "  You 
look  just  as  he  did  when  we  courted  and 
camped  and  fought  together."  The  tone  of 
his  voice  moved  Crittenden  deeply.  "  And 
you  are  going  to  the  war — good — good! 
61 


Crittenden 

Your  father  would  be  with  me  right  now  if 
he  were  alive.  Come  to  see  me  right  away. 
I  may  go  to  Tampa  any  day."  And,  as  he 
rode  away,  he  stopped  again. 

"  Of  course  you  have  a  commission  in  the 
Legion." 

"  Xo,  sir.  I  didn't  ask  for  one.  I  was 
afraid  the  Legion  might  not  get  to  Cuba." 
The  General  smiled. 

"  Well,  come  to  see  me  "-—he  smiled  again 
— "  we'll  see — we'll  see !  "  and  he  rode  on  with 
his  hands  still  folded  on  the  pommel  of  his  sad 
dle  and  his  eyes  still  lifted,  dreamily,  upward. 

It  was  guard-mount  and  sunset  when  Crit 
tenden,  with  a  leaping  heart,  reached  Rivers's 
camp.  The  band  was  just  marching  out  with 
a  corps  of  trumpeters,  when  a  crash  of  martial 
music  came  across  the  hollow  from  the  camp 
on  the  next  low  hill,  followed  by  cheers, 
which  ran  along  the  road  and  were  swollen 
into  a  mighty  shouting  when  taken  up  by  the 
camp  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Through  the 
smoke  and  faint  haze  of  the  early  evening, 
moved  a  column  of  infantry  into  sight,  headed 
by  a  band. 

"  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
The  boys  are  marching!  " 
62 


Crittenaen 

Along  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  but  faintly 
seen  through  the  smoky  haze,  came  the  pendu 
lum-like  swing  of  rank  after  rank  of  sturdy 
legs,  with  guidons  fluttering  along  the  col 
umns  and  big,  ghostly  army  wagons  rumbling 
behind.  Up  started  the  band  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  with  a  rousing  march,  and  up  started 
every  band  along  the  line,  and  through  madly 
cheering  soldiers  swung  the  regiment  on  its 
way  to  Tampa — magic  word,  hope  of  every 
chafing  soldier  left  behind — Tampa,  the  point 
of  embarkation  for  the  little  island  where 
waited  death  or  glory. 

Rivers  was  deeply  dejected. 

"  Don't  you  join  any  regiment  yet,"  he 
said  to  Crittenden;  "you  may  get  hung  up 
here  all  summer  till  the  war  is  over.  If  you 
want  to  get  into  the  fun  for  sure — wait.  Go 
to  Tampa  and  wait.  You  might  come  here, 
or  go  there,  and  drill  and  watch  for  your 
chance."  Which  was  the  conclusion  Critten 
den  had  already  reached  for  himself. 

The  sun  sank  rapidly  now.  Dusk  fell 
swiftly,  and  the  pines  began  their  nightly 
dirge  for  the  many  dead  who  died  under  them 
five  and  thirty  years  ago.  They  had  a  new 
and  ominous  chant  now  to  Crittenden — a 
63 


Crittenden 

chant  of  premonition  for  the  strong  men  about 
him  who  were  soon  to  follow  them.  Camp- 
fires  began  to  glow  out  of  the  darkness  far  and 
near  over  the  old  battle-field. 

Around  a  little  fire  on  top  of  the  hill,  and 
in  front  of  the  Colonel's  tent,  sat  the  Colonel, 
with  kind  Irish  face,  Irish  eye,  and  Irish  wit 
of  tongue.  Near  him  the  old  Indian-fighter, 
Chaffee,  with  strong  brow,  deep  eyes,  long 
jaw,  firm  mouth,  strong  chin — the  long,  lean 
face  of  a  thirteenth  century  monk  who  was 
quick  to  doff  cowl  for  helmet.  While  they 
told  war-stories,  Crittenden  sat  in  silence  with 
the  majors  three,  and  Willings,  the  surgeon 
(whom  he  was  to  know  better  in  Cuba), 
and  listened.  Every  now  and  then  a  horse 
would  loom  from  the  darkness  and  a  visiting 
officer  would  swing  into  the  light,  and  every 
body  would  say: 

"How!" 

There  is  no  humor  in  that  monosyllable  of 
good  cheer  throughout  the  United  States 
Army,  and  with  Indian-like  solemnity  they 
said  it,  tin  cup  in  hand, 

"How!" 

Once  it  was  Lawton,  tall,  bronzed,  com 
manding,  taciturn — but  fluent  when  he  did 
64 


Crittenden 

speak — or  Kent,  or  Sumner,  or  little  Jerry 
Carter  himself.  And  once,  a  soldier  stepped 
into  the  circle  of  firelight,  his  heels  click 
ing  sharply  together;  and  Crittenden  thought 
an  uneasy  movement  ran  around  the  group, 
and  that  the  younger  men  looked  furtive 
ly  up  as  though  to  take  their  cue  from  the 
Colonel.  It  was  the  soldier  who  had  been  an 
officer  once.  The  Colonel  showed  not  a  hint 
of  consciousness,  nor  did  the  impassive  soldier 
to  anybody  but  Crittenden,  and  with  him  it 
may  have  been  imagination  that  made  him 
think  that  once,  when  the  soldier  let  his  eye 
flash  quite  around  the  group,  he  flushed  slight 
ly  when  he  met  Crittenden's  gaze.  Rivers 
shrugged  his  shoulders  when  Crittenden 
asked  about  him  later. 

"  Black  sheep  .  .  .  well-educated,  brave, 
well-born  most  likely,  came  up  from  the  ranks, 
.  .  .  won  a  commission  as  sergeant  fighting 
Indians,  but  always  in  trouble — gambling, 
fighting,  and  so  forth.  Somebody  in  Washing 
ton  got  him  a  lieutenancy,  and  while  the  com 
mission  was  on  its  way  to  him  out  West  he  got 
into  a  bar-room  brawl.  He  resigned  then,  and 
left  the  army.  He  was  gentleman  enough  to 
do  that.  Now  he's  back.  The  type  is  com- 
65 


Crittenden 

mon  in  the  army,  and  they  often  come  back. 
I  expect  he  has  decency  enough  to  want  to 
get  killed.  If  he  has,  maybe  he'll  come  out 
a  captain  yet." 

By  and  by  came  "  tattoo,"  and  finally  far 
away  a  trumpet  sounded  "  taps;  "  then  an 
other  and  another  and  another  still.  At  last, 
when  all  were  through,  "  taps  "  rose  once  more 
out  of  the  darkness  to  the  left.  This  last 
trumpeter  had  waited — he  knew  his  theme 
and  knew  his  power.  The  rest  had  simply 
given  the  command: 

"  Lights  out!  " 

Lights  out  of  the  soldier's  camp,  they  said. 
Lights  out  of  the  soldier's  life,  said  this  one, 
sadly;  and  out  of  Crittenden's  life  just  now 
something  that  once  was  dearer  than  life  it 
self. 

"  Love,  good-night." 

Such  the  trumpet  meant  to  one  poet,  and 
such  it  meant  to  many  another  than  Critten 
den,  doubtless,  when  he  stretched  himself  on. 
his  cot — thinking  of  Judith  there  that  after 
noon,  and  seeing  her  hand  lift  to  pull  away 
the  veil  from  the  statues  again.  So  it  had 
always  been  with  him.  One  touch  of  her  hand 
and  the  veil  that  hid  his  better  self  parted, 
66 


Crittenden 

and  that  self  stepped  forth  victorious.  It  had 
been  thickening,  fold  on  fold,  a  long  while 
now;  and  now,  he  thought  sternly,  the  rend 
ing  must  be  done,  and  should  be  done  with 
his  own  hands.  And  then  he  would  go  back 
to  thinking  of  her  as  he  saw  her  last  in  the 
Bluegrass.  And  he  wondered  what  that  last 
look  and  smile  of  hers  could  mean.  Later,  he 
moved  in  his  sleep — dreaming  of  that  brave 
column  marching  for  Tampa — with  his 
mind's  eye  on  the  flag  at  the  head  of  the  regi 
ment,  and  a  thrill  about  his  heart  that  waked 
him.  And  he  remembered  that  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever  had  any  sensation  about 
the  flag  of  his  own  land.  But  it  had  come  to 
him — awake  and  asleep — and  it  was  genuine. 


67 


VI 

IT  was  mid-May  now,  and  the  leaves  were 
full  and  their  points  were  drooping  toward  the 
earth.  The  woods  were  musical  with  the  cries 
of  blackbirds  as  Crittenden  drove  toward 
the  pike-gate,  and  the  meadow  was  sweet  with 
the  love-calls  of  larks.  The  sun  was  fast  near- 
ing  the  zenith,  and  air  and  earth  were  lusty 
with  life.  Already  the  lane,  lined  with  locust- 
trees,  brambles,  wild  rose-bushes,  and  young 
elders,  was  fragrant  with  the  promise  of  un 
born  flowers,  and  the  turnpike,  when  he  neared 
town,  was  soft  with  the  dust  of  many  a  hoof 
and  wheel  that  had  passed  over  it  toward  the 
haze  of  smoke  which  rose  over  the  first  re 
cruiting  camp  in  the  State  for  the  Spanish 
war.  There  was  a  big  crowd  in  the  lovely 
woodland  over  which  hung  the  haze,  and  the 
music  of  horn  and  drum  came  forth  to  Crit- 
tenden's  ears  even  that  far  away,  and  Rain- 
crow  raised  head  and  tail  and  quickened  his 
pace  proudly. 

For  a  week  he  had  drilled  at  Chickamauga. 
68 


Crittenden 

He  had  done  the  work  of  a  plain  soldier,  and 
he  liked  it — liked  his  temporary  comrades, 
who  were  frankly  men  to  men  with  him,  in 
spite  of  his  friendship  with  their  superiors  on 
top  of  the  hill.  To  the  big  soldier,  Abe  Long, 
the  wag  of  the  regiment,  he  had  been  drawn 
with  genuine  aifection.  He  liked  Abe's 
bunkie,  the  boy  Sanders,  who  was  from 
Maine,  while  Abe  was  a  Westerner — the  lin 
eal  descendant,  in  frame,  cast  of  mind,  and 
character  of  the  border  backwoodsman  of  the 
Revolution.  Reynolds  was  a  bully,  and  Crit 
tenden  all  but  had  trouble  with  him;  for  he  bul 
lied  the  boy  Sanders  when  Abe  was  not  around, 
and  bullied  the  "  rookies."  Abe  seemed  to 
have  little  use  for  him,  but  as  he  had  saved  the 
big  soldier's  life  once  in  an  Indian  fight,  Abe 
stuck  to  him,  in  consequence,  loyally.  But 
Blackford,  the  man  who  had  been  an  officer 
once,  had  interested  him  most;  perhaps,  be 
cause  Blackford  showed  peculiar  friendliness 
for  him  at  once.  From  AVashington,  Critten 
den  had  heard  not  a  word;  nor  from  General 
Carter,  who  had  left  Chickamauga  before  he 
could  see  him  again.  If,  within  two  days 
more,  no  word  came,  Crittenden  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  to  Tampa,  where  the  little  Gen- 
69 


Crittenden 

eral  was,  and  where  Rivers's  regiment  had 
been  ordered,  and  drill  again  and,  as  Rivers 
advised,  await  his  chance. 

The  camp  was  like  some  great  picnic  or 
political  barbecue,  with  the  smoking  trenches, 
the  burgoo,  and  the  central  feast  of  beef  and 
mutton  left  out.  Everywhere  country  folks 
were  gathering  up  fragments  of  lunch  on  the 
thick  grass,  or  strolling  past  the  tents  of  the 
soldiers,  or  stopping  before  the  Colonel's  pavil 
ion  to  look  upon  the  martial  young  gentlemen 
who  composed  his  staff,  their  beautiful  horses, 
and  the  Colonel's  beautiful  guests  from  the 
river  city — the  big  town  of  the  State.  Every 
where  were  young  soldiers  in  twos  and  threes 
keeping  step,  to  be  sure,  but  with  eyes  any 
where  but  to  the  front;  groups  lying  on  the 
ground,  chewing  blades  of  bluegrass,  watch 
ing  pretty  girls  pass,  and  lounging  lazily; 
groups  to  one  side,  but  by  no  means  out  of 
sight,  throwing  dice  or  playing  "  craps  " — the 
game  dear  to  the  darkey's  heart.  On  the  out 
skirts  were  guards  to  gently  challenge  the  vis 
itor,  but  not  very  stern  sentinels  were  they. 
As  Crittenden  drove  in,  he  saw  one  pacing  a 
shady  beat  with  a  girl  on  his  arm.  And,  later, 
as  he  stood  by  his  buggy,  looking  around  with 
70 


Crittenden 

an  amused  sense  of  the  playful  contrast  it  all 
was  to  what  he  had  seen  at  Chickamauga,  he 
saw  another  sentinel  brought  to  a  sudden  halt 
by  a  surprised  exclamation  from  a  girl,  who 
was  being  shown  through  the  camp  by  a  strut 
ting  lieutenant.  The  sentinel  was  Basil  and 
Phyllis  was  the  girl. 

"  Why,  isn't  that  Basil  ?  "  she  asked,  in  an 
amazed  tone — amazed  because  Basil  did  not 
speak  to  her,  but  grinned  silently. 

"  Why,  it  is  Basil ;  why — why,"  and  she 
turned  helplessly  from  private  to  officer  and 
back  again.  "  Can't  you  speak  to  me,  Ba 
sil?  " 

Basil  grinned  again  sheepishly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  answering  her,  but  looking 
straight  at  his  superior,  "  I  can  if  the  Lieuten 
ant  there  will  let  me."  Phyllis  was  indignant. 

"  Let  you!  "  she  said,  witheringly;  and  she 
turned  on  the  hapless  tyrant  at  her  side. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  putting  on  airs, 
just  because  you  happen  to  have  been  in 
the  Legion  a  little  longer  than  some  people. 
Of  course,  I'm  going  to  speak  to  my  friends. 
I  don't  care  where  they  are  or  what  they  hap 
pen  to  be  at  the  time,  or  who  happens  to 
think  himself  over  them." 


Crittenden 

And  she  walked  up  to  the  helpless  sentinel 
with  her  hand  outstretched,  while  the  equally 
helpless  Lieutenant  got  very  red  indeed,  and 
Basil  shifted  his  gun  to  a  very  umnilitary  po 
sition  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Let  me  see  your  gun,  Basil,"  she  added, 
and  the  boy  obediently  handed  it  over  to  her, 
while  the  little  Lieutenant  turned  redder  still. 

"  You  go  to  the  guard-house  for  that,  Crit 
tenden,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  Don't  you  know 
you  oughtn't  to  give  up  your  gun  to  anybody 
except  your  commanding  officer?  " 

"Does  he,  indeed?"  said  the  girl,  just  as 
quietly.  "  Well,  I'll  see  the  Colonel."  And 
Basil  saluted  soberly,  knowing  there  was  no 
guard-house  for  him  that  night. 

"  Anyhow,"  she  added,  "  I'm  the  com 
manding  officer  here."  And  then  the  gallant 
lieutenant  saluted  too. 

"You  are,  indeed,"  he  said;  and  Phyllis 
turned  to  give  Basil  a  parting  smile. 

Crittenden  followed  them  to  the  Colonel's 
tent,  which  had  a  raised  floor  and  the  good 
cheer  of  cigar-boxes,  and  of  something  under 
his  cot  that  looked  like  a  champagne-basket; 
and  he  smiled  to  think  of  Chaffee's  Spartan- 
like  outfit  at  Chickamauga.  Every  now  and 
72 


Crittenden 

then  a  soldier  would  come  up  with  a  complaint, 
and  the  Colonel  would  attend  to  him  person- 
ally. 

It  was  plain  that  the  old  ex-Confederate 
was  the  father  of  the  regiment,  and  was  be 
loved  as  such;  and  Crittenden  was  again 
struck  with  the  contrast  it  all  was  to  what  he 
had  just  seen,  knowing  well,  however,  that 
the  chief  difference  was  in  the  spirit  in  which 
regular  and  volunteer  approached  the  matter 
in  hand.  With  one,  it  was  a  business  pure 
and  simple,  to  which  he  was  trained.  With 
the  other,  it  was  a  lark  at  first,  but  business  it 
soon  would  be,  and  a  dashing  business  at  that. 
There  was  the  same  crowd  before  the  tent — 
Judith,  who  greeted  him  with  gracious  frank 
ness,  but  with  a  humorous  light  in  her  eye  that 
set  him  again  to  wondering;  and  Phyllis  and 
Phyllis's  mother,  Mrs.  Stanton,  who  no  sooner 
saw  Crittenden  than  she  furtively  looked  at 
Judith  with  a  solicitude  that  was  maternal 
and  significant. 

There  can  be  no  better  hot-bed  of  sentiment 
than  the  mood  of  man  and  woman  when  the 
man  is  going  to  war;  and  if  Mrs.  Stanton  had 
not  shaken  that  nugget  of  wisdom  from  her 
memories  of  the  old  war,  she  would  have 
73 


Crittenden 

known  it  anyhow,  for  she  was  blessed  with  a 
perennial  sympathy  for  the  heart-troubles  of 
the  young,  and  she  was  as  quick  to  apply  a 
remedy  to  the  children  of  other  people  as  she 
was  to  her  own,  whom,  by  the  way,  she  cured, 
one  by  one,  as  they  grew  old  enough  to  love 
and  suffer,  and  learn  through  suffering  what 
it  was  to  be  happy.  And  how  other  mothers 
wondered  how  it  was  all  done !  In  truth,  her 
method — if  she  had  a  conscious  method — was 
as  mysterious  and  as  sure  as  is  the  way  of 
nature;  and  one  could  no  more  catch  her  nurs 
ing  a  budding  passion  here  and  there  than 
one  could  catch  nature  making  the  bluegrass 
grow.  Everybody  saw  the  result;  nobody 
saw  just  how  it  was  done.  That  afternoon  an 
instance  was  at  hand.  Judith  wanted  to  go 
home,  and  Mrs.  Stanton,  who  had  brought 
her  to  camp,  wanted  to  go  to  town.  Phyllis, 
too,  wanted  to  go  home,  and  her  wicked  little 
brother,  Walter,  who  had  brought  her, 
climbed  into  Basil's  brake  before  her  eyes, 
and,  making  a  face  at  her,  disappeared  in  a 
cloud  of  dust.  Of  course,  neither  of  the 
brothers  nor  the  two  girls  knew  what  was  go 
ing  on,  but,  a  few  minutes  later,  there  was 
Basil  pleading  with  Mrs.  Stanton  to  let  him 
74 


Crittenden 

take  Phyllis  home,  and  there  was  Crittenden 
politely  asking  the  privilege  of  taking  Judith 
into  his  buggy.  The  girl  looked  embarrassed, 
but  when  Mrs.  Stanton  made  a  gracious  feint 
of  giving  up  her  trip  to  town,  Judith  even 
more  graciously  declined  to  allow  her,  and, 
with  a  smile  to  Crittenden,  as  though  he  were 
a  conscious  partner  in  her  effort  to  save  Mrs. 
Stanton  trouble,  gave  him  her  hand  and  was 
helped  into  the  smart  trap,  with  its  top  pressed 
flat,  its  narrow  seat  and  a  high-headed,  high- 
reined,  half -thoroughbred  restive  between  the 
slender  shafts;  and  a  moment  later,  smiled  a 
good-by  to  the  placid  lady,  who,  with  a  sigh 
that  was  half  an  envious  memory,  half  the 
throb  of  a  big,  kind  heart,  turned  to  her  own 
carriage,  assuring  herself  that  it  really  was 
imperative  for  her  to  drive  to  town,  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  to  see  that  her  mischievous 
boy  got  out  of  town  with  the  younger  Critten- 
den's  brake. 

Judith  and  Crittenden  were  out  of  the 
push  of  cart,  carriage,  wagon,  and  street-car 
now,  and  out  of  the  smoke  and  dust  of  the 
town,  and  Crittenden  pulled  his  horse  down  to 
a  slow  trot.  The  air  was  clear  and  fragrant 
and  restful.  So  far,  the  two  had  spoken 
75 


Crittenden 

scarcely  a  dozen  words.  Crittenden  was  em 
barrassed — he  hardly  knew  why — and  Judith 
saw  it,  and  there  was  a  suppressed  smile  at 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  which  Crittenden 
did  not  see. 

"  It's  too  bad." 

Crittenden  turned  suddenly. 

"  It's  a  great  pleasure." 

"  For  which  you  have  Mrs.  Stanton  to 
thank.  You  would  have  got  it  for  yourself 
five — dear  me;  is  it  possible? — five  years 
ago." 

"  Seven  years  ago,"  corrected  Crittenden, 
grimly.  "  I  was  more  self-indulgent  seven 
years  ago  than  I  am  now." 

"  And  the  temptation  was  greater  then." 

The  smile  at  her  mouth  twitched  her  lipg 
faintly,  and  still  Crittenden  did  not  see;  he 
was  too  serious,  and  he  kept  silent. 

The  clock-like  stroke  of  the  horse's  high- 
lifted  feet  came  sharply  out  on  the  hard  road. 
The  cushioned  springs  under  them  creaked 
softly  now  and  then,  and  the  hum  of  the 
slender,  glittering  spokes  was  noiseless  and 
drowsy. 

"  You  haven't  changed  much,"  said  Judith, 
"  except  for  the  better." 
76 


Crittenden 

"  You  haven't  changed  at  all.  You  couldn't 
— for  better  or  worse." 

Judith  smiled  dreamily  and  her  eyes  were 
looking  backward — very  far  backward.  Sud 
denly  they  were  shot  with  mischief. 

"  Why,  you  really  don't  seem  to —  '  she 
hesitated —  "  to  like  me  any  more." 

"  I  really  don't —  Crittenden,  too,  hesi 
tated —  "  don't  like  you  any  more — not  as  I 
did." 

"  You  wrote  me  that." 

"  Yes." 

The  girl  gave  a  low  laugh.  How  often  he 
had  played  this  harmless  little  part.  But 
there  was  a  cool  self-possession  about  him  that 
she  had  never  seen  before.  She  had  come 
home,  prepared  to  be  very  nice  to  him,  and  she 
was  finding  it  easy. 

"  And  you  never  answered,"  said  Critten 
den. 

"  No;  and  I  don't  know  why." 

The  birds  were  coming  from  shade  and 
thicket — for  midday  had  been  warm — into 
the  fields  and  along  the  hedges,  and  were  flut 
tering  from  one  fence-rail  to  another  ahead  of 
them  and  piping  from  the  bushes  by  the  way 
side  and  the  top  of  young  weeds. 
77 


Crittenden 

"  You  \vrote  that  you  were — '  getting  over 
it '  ?  In  the  usual  way?  " 

Crittenden  glanced  covertly  at  Judith's 
face.  A  mood  in  her  like  this  always  made 
him  uneasy. 

"  Not  in  the  usual  way;  I  don't  think  it's 
usual.  I  hope  not." 

"How  then?" 

"  Oh,  pride,  absence  —  deterioration  and 
other  things." 

"Why,  then?" 

Judith's  head  was  leaning  backward,  her 
eyes  were  closed,  but  her  face  seemed  perfectly 
serious. 

"  You  told  me  to  get  over  it." 

"Did  I?" 

Crittenden  did  not  deign  to  answer  this, 
and  Judith  was  silent  a  long  while.  Then 
her  eyes  opened;  but  they  were  looking  back 
ward  again,  and  she  might  have  been  talking 
to  herself. 

"  I'm  wondering,"  she  said,  "  whether  any 
woman  ever  really  meant  that  when  she  said 
it  to  a  man  whom  she — "  Crittenden  turned 
quickly —  "  whom  she  liked,"  added  Judith,  as 
though  she  had  not  seen  his  movement.  "  She 
may  think  it  her  duty  to  say  it;  she  may  say 
78 


Crittenden 

it  because  it  is  her  duty;  but  in  her  heart,  I 
suppose,  she  wants  him  to  keep  on  loving  her 
just  the  same — if  she  likes  him —  Judith 
paused —  "  even  more  than  a  very  little. 
That's  very  selfish,  but  I'm  afraid  it's 
true." 

And  Judith  sighed  helplessly. 

"  I  think  you  made  it  little  enough  that 
time,"  laughed  Crittenden.  "  Are  you  still 
afraid  of  giving  me  too  much  hope  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  of  nothing — now." 

"  Thank  you.  You  were  ever  too  much 
concerned  about  me." 

"  I  was.  Other  men  may  have  found  the 
fires  of  my  conscience  smouldering  sometimes, 
but  they  were  always  ablaze  whenever  you 
came  near.  I  liked  you  better  than  the  rest — 
better  than  all— 

Crittenden's  heart  gave  a  faint  throb  and 
he  finished  the  sentence  for  her. 

"  But  one." 

"  But  one." 

And  that  one  had  been  unworthy,  and 
Judith  had  sent  him  adrift.  She  had  always 
been  frank  with  Crittenden.  That  much  he 
knew  and  no  more — not  even  the  man's  name ; 
but  how  he  had  wondered  who  and  where  and 
79 


Crittenden 

what  manner  of  man  he  was!  And  how  he 
had  longed  to  see  him ! 

They  were  passing  over  a  little  bridge  in  a 
hollow  where  a  cool  current  of  air  struck  them 
and  the  freshened  odor  of  moistening  green 
things  in  the  creek-bed — the  first  breath  of  the 
night  that  was  still  below  the  cloudy  horizon. 

"  Deterioration,"  said  Judith,  almost  sharp 
ly.  "  What  did  you  mean  by  that?  " 

Crittenden  hesitated,  and  she  added: 

"  Go  on;  we  are  no  longer  children." 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing,  or  everything,  just  as 
you  look  at  it.  I  made  a  discovery  soon  after 
you  went  away.  I  found  that  when  I  fell 
short  of  the  standard  you  " — Crittenden  spoke 
slowly — "  had  set  for  me,  I  got  at  least  mental 
relief.  I  couldn't  think  of  you  until — until 
I  had  recovered  myself  again." 

"  So  you " 

"  I  used  the  discovery." 

"  That  was  weak." 

"  It  was  deliberate." 

"  Then  it  was  criminal." 

"  Both,  if  you  wish ;  but  credit  me  with  at 
least  the  strength  to  confess  and  the  grace  to 
be  ashamed.  But  I'm  beginning  all  over 

again  now — by  myself." 
80 


Crittenden 

He  was  flipping  at  one  shaft  with  the 
cracker  of  his  whip  and  not  looking  at  her,  and 
Judith  kept  silent;  but  she  was  watching  his 
face. 

"  It's  time,"  he  went  on,  with  slow  humor. 
"  So  far,  I've  just  missed  being  what  I  should 
have  been;  doing  what  I  should  have  done — 
by  a  hair's  breadth.  I  did  pretty  well  in  col 
lege,  but  thereafter,  when  things  begin  to 
count!  Law?  I  never  got  over  the  humilia 
tion  of  my  first  ridiculous  failure.  Business? 
I  made  a  fortune  in  six  weeks,  lost  it  in  a 
month,  and  was  lucky  to  get  out  without  hav 
ing  to  mortgage  a  farm.  Politics?  Wharton 
won  by  a  dozen  votes.  I  just  missed  being 
what  my  brother  is  now — I  missed  winning 
you — everything!  Think  of  it!  I  am  five 
feet  eleven  and  three-quarters,  when  I  should 
have  been  full  six  feet.  I  am  the  first  Crit 
tenden  to  fall  under  the  line  in  a  century.  I 
have  been  told  "  —he  smiled — "  that  I  have 
missed  being  handsome.  There  again  I  be 
lieve  I  overthrow  family  tradition.  My  youth 
is  going — to  no  purpose,  so  far — and  it  looks 
as  though  I  were  going  to  miss  life  hereafter 
as  well  as  here,  since,  along  with  everything 
else,  I  have  just  about  missed  faith." 
81 


Crittenden 

He  was  quite  sincere  and  unsparing,  but  had 
Judith  been  ten  years  older,  she  would  have 
laughed  outright.  As  it  was,  she  grew  sober 
and  sympathetic  and,  like  a  woman,  began 
to  wonder,  for  the  millionth  time,  perhaps, 
how  far  she  had  been  to  blame. 

"  The  comfort  I  have  is  that  I  have  been, 
and  still  am,  honest  with  myself.  I  haven't 
done  what  I  ought  not  and  then  tried  to  per 
suade  myself  that  it  was  right.  I  always 
knew  it  was  wrong,  and  I  did  it  anyhow.  And 
the  hope  I  have  is  that,  like  the  man  in  Brown 
ing's  poem,  I  believe  I  always  try  to  get  up 
again,  no  matter  how  often  I  stumble.  I 
sha'n't  give  up  hope  until  I  am  willing  to  lie 
still.  And  I  guess,  after  all—  "  he  lifted  his 
head  suddenly —  "  I  haven't  missed  being  a 
man." 

"  And  a  gentleman,"  added  Judith  gently. 

"  According  to  the  old  standard — no." 
Crittenden  paused. 

The  sound  of  buggy  wheels  and  a  fast- 
trotting  horse  rose  behind  them.  Raincrow 
lifted  his  head  and  quickened  his  pace,  but 
Crittenden  pulled  him  in  as  Basil  and  Phyllis 
swept  by.  The  two  youngsters  were  in  high 
spirits,  and  the  boy  shook  his  whip  back  and 
82 


Crittenden 

the  girl  her  handkerchief — both  crying  some 
thing  which  neither  Judith  nor  Crittenden 
could  understand.  Far  behind  was  the  sound 
of  another  horse's  hoofs,  and  Crittenden,  glanc 
ing  back,  saw  his  political  enemy — Wharton 
— a  girl  by  his  side,  and  coming  at  full  speed. 
At  once  he  instinctively  gave  half  the  road, 
and  Raincrow,  knowing  what  that  meant,  shot 
out  his  feet  and  Crittenden  tightened  the 
reins,  not  to  check,  but  to  steady  him.  The 
head  of  the  horse  behind  he  could  just  see, 
but  he  went  on  talking  quietly. 

"  I  love  that  boy,"  pointing  with  his  whip 
ahead.  "  Do  you  remember  that  passage  I 
once  read  you  in  Stevenson  about  his  '  little 
brother '  \  " 

Judith  nodded. 

The  horse  behind  was  creeping  up  now,  and 
his  open  nostrils  were  visible  past  the  light 
hair  blowing  about  Judith's  neck.  Critten 
den  spoke  one  quiet  word  to  his  own  horse, 
and  Judith  saw  the  leaders  of  his  wrist  begin 
to  stand  out  as  Raincrow  settled  into  the  long 
reach  that  had  sent  his  sire  a  winner  under 
many  a  string. 

"  Well,  I  know  what  he  meant — that  boy 
never  will.  And  that  is  as  a  man  should  be. 
83 


Crittenden 

The  hope  of  the  race  isn't  in  this  buggy — it 
has  gone  on  before  with  Phyllis  and  Basil." 

Once  the  buggy  wheels  ran  within  an  inch 
of  a  rather  steep  bank,  and  straight  ahead  was 
a  short  line  of  broken  limestone  so  common 
on  bluegrass  turnpikes,  but  Judith  had  the 
Southern  girl's  trust  and  courage,  and  seemed, 
to  notice  the  reckless  drive  as  little  as  did  Crit 
tenden,  who  made  the  wheels  straddle  the 
stones,  when  the  variation  of  an  inch  or  two 
would  have  lamed  his  horse  and  overturned 
them. 

"  Yes,  they  are  as  frank  as  birds  in  their 
love-making,  and  they  will  many  with  aa 
little  question  as  birds  do  when  they  nest. 
They  will  have  a  house  full  of  children — 1 
have  heard  her  mother  say  that  was  her  am 
bition  and  the  ambition  she  had  for  her  chil 
dren;  and  they  will  live  a  sane,  wholesome, 
useful,  happy  life." 

The  buggy  behind  had  made  a  little  spurt, 
and  the  horses  were  almost  neck  and  neck. 
Wharton  looked  ugly,  and  the  black-eyed  girl 
with  fluffy  black  hair  was  looking  behind 
Judith's  head  at  Crittenden  and  was  smiling. 
!Not  once  had  Judith  turned  her  head,  even  to 
see  who  they  were.  Crittenden  hardly  knew 
84 


Crittenden 

whether  she  was  conscious  of  the  race,  but 
they  were  approaching  her  gate  now  and  he 
found  out. 

"Shall  I  turn  in?  "he  asked. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Judith. 

There  was  a  long,  low  hill  before  them,  and 
up  that  Crittenden  let  Raincrow  have  his  full 
speed  for  the  first  time.  The  panting  nostrils 
of  the  other  horse  fell  behind — out  of  sight — 
out  of  hearing. 

"  And  if  he  doesn't  get  back  from  the  war, 
she  will  mourn  for  him  sincerely  for  a  year  or 
two  and  then — 

"  Many  someone  else." 

"  Why  not?  " 

That  was  what  she  had  so  often  told  him  to 
do,  and  now  he  spoke  as  though  it  were  quite 
possible — even  for  him;  and  she  was  both 
glad  and  a  little  resentful. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  they  turned.  The 
enemy  was  trotting  leisurely  up  the  slope, 
having  given  up  the  race  earlier  than  they 
knew.  Judith's  face  was  flushed. 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  so  very  old,"  she 
said. 

Crittenden  laughed,  and  took  off  his  hat 
very  politely  when  they  met  the  buggy,  but 
85 


Crittenden 

Wharton  looked  surly.  The  girl  with  the 
black  hair  looked  sharply  at  Judith,  and  then 
again  at  Crittenden,  and  smiled.  She  must 
have  cared  little  for  her  companion,  Judith 
thought,  or  something  for  Crittenden,  and 
yet  she  knew  that  most  women  smiled  at  Crit 
tenden,  even  when  they  did  not  know  him 
very  well.  Still  she  asked:  "  And  the  other 
things — you  meant  other  women?  " 

"  Yes,  and  no." 

"  Why  no." 

"  Because  I  have  deceived  nobody — not 
even  myself — and  Heaven  knows  I  tried  that 
hard  enough." 

"  That  was  one?  "  she  added,  smiling. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  me  better  than  to  ask 
such  a  question." 

Again  Judith  smiled — scanning  him  close- 

ly. 

"  No,  you  aren't  so  very  old — nor  world- 
weary,  after  all." 

"No?" 

"  No.  And  you  have  strong  hands — and 
wrists.  And  your  eyes  are —  '  she  seemed 
almost  embarrassed —  "  are  the  eyes  of  a  good 
man,  in  spite  of  what  you  say  about  yourself; 
and  I  would  trust  them.  And  it  was  very  fine 
86 


Crittenden 

in  you  to  talk  as  you  did  when  we  were  tearing 
up  that  hill  a  moment  ago." 

Crittenden  turned  with  a  start  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  with  unaffected  carelessness. 
"  You  didn't  seem  to  be  very  nervous." 

"  I  trusted  you." 

Crittenden  had  stopped  to  pull  the  self- 
opening  gate,  and  he  drove  almost  at  a  slow 
walk  through  the  pasture  toward  Judith's 
home.  The  sun  was  reddening  through  the 
trees  now.  The  whole  earth  was  moist  and 
fragrant,  and  the  larks  were  singing  their 
last  songs  for  that  happy  day.  Judith  was 
quite  serious  now. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  was  glad  to  hear  you  say 
that  you  had  got  over  your  old  feeling  for  me. 
I  feel  so  relieved.  I  have  always  felt  so  re 
sponsible  for  your  happiness,  but  I  don't  now, 
and  it  is  such  a  relief.  ISTow  you  will  go 
ahead  and  marry  some  lovely  girl  and  you 
will  be  happy  and  I  shall  be  happier — seeing 
it  and  knowing  it." 

Crittenden  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  something  seems  to  have 
gone  out  of  me,  never  to  come  back." 

There  was  nobody  in  sight  to  open  the  yard 
gate,  and  Crittenden  drove  to  the  stiles,  where 
87 


Crittenden 

he  helped  Judith  out  and  climbed  back  into 
his  buggy. 

Judith  turned  in  surprise.  "  Aren't  you 
coming  in?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  time." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have." 

A  negro  boy  was  running  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Hitch  Mr.  Crittenden's  horse,"  she  said, 
and  Crittenden  climbed  out  obediently  and 
followed  her  to  the  porch,  but  she  did  not  sit 
down  outside.  She  went  on  into  the  parlor 
and  threw  open  the  window  to  let  the  last  sun 
light  in,  and  sat  by  it  looking  at  the  west. 

For  a  moment  Crittenden  watched  her. 
He  never  realized  before  how  much  simple 
physical  beauty  she  had,  nor  did  he  realize  the 
significance  of  the  fact  that  never  until  now 
had  he  observed  it.  She  had  been  a  spirit 
before;  now  she  was  a  woman  as  well.  But 
he  did  note  that  if  he  could  have  learned  only 
from  Judith,  he  would  never  have  known  that 
he  even  had  wrists  or  eyes  until  that  day ;  and 
yet  he  was  curiously  unstirred  by  the  subtle 
change  in  her.  He  was  busied  with  his  own 
memories. 

"  And  I  know  it  can  never  come  back,"  he 
said,  and  he  went  on  thinking  as  he  looked  at 


Crittenden 

her.  "  I  wonder  if  you  can  know  what  it  is 
to  have  somebody  such  a  part  of  your  life  that 
you  never  hear  a  noble  strain  of  music,  never 
read  a  noble  line  of  poetry,  never  catch  a  high 
mood  from  nature,  nor  from  your  own  best 
thoughts — that  you  do  not  imagine  her  by 
your  side  to  share  your  pleasure  in  it  all;  that 
you  make  no  effort  to  better  yourself  or  help 
others ;  that  you  do  nothing  of  which  she  could 
approve,  that  you  are  not  thinking  of  her — 
that  really  she  is  not  the  inspiration  of  it  all. 
That  doesn't  come  but  once.  Think  of  having 
somebody  so  linked  with  your  life,  with  what 
is  highest  and  best  in  you,  that,  when  the  hour 
of  temptation  comes  and  overcomes,  you  are 
not  able  to  think  of  her  through  very  shame. 
I  wonder  if  lie  loved  you  that  way.  I  wonder 
if  you  know  what  such  love  is." 

"  It  never  comes  but  once,"  he  said,  in  a»low 
tone  that  made  Judith  turn  suddenly.  Her 
eyes  looked  as  if  they  were  not  far  from  tears. 

A  tiny  star  showed  in  the  pink  glow  over 
the  west — 

"  Starlight,  star  bright!  " 

"  Think  of  it.  For  ten  years  I  never  saw 
the  first  star  without  making  the  same  wish 


Crittenden 

for  you  and  me.  Why,"  he  went  on,  and 
stopped  suddenly  with  a  little  shame  at  mak 
ing  the  confession  even  to  himself,  and  at  the 
same  time  with  an  impersonal  wonder  that 
such  a  thing  could  be,  "  I  used  to  pray  for 
you  always — when  I  said  my  prayers — actu 
ally.  And  sometimes  even  now,  when  I'm 
pretty  hopeless  and  helpless  and  moved  by 
some  memory,  the  old  prayer  comes  back  un 
consciously  and  I  find  myself  repeating  your 
name." 

For  the  moment  he  spoke  as  though  not 
only  that  old  love,  but  she  who  had  caused  it, 
were  dead,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  made  her 
shiver. 

And  the  suffering  he  used  to  get — the  suf 
fering  from  trifles — the  foolish  suffering  from 
silly  trifles! 

He  turned  now,  for  he  heard  Judith  walk 
ing  toward  him.  She  was  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes  and  was  smiling  strangely. 

"  I'm  going  to  make  you  love  me  as  you 
used  to  love  me." 

Her  lips  were  left  half  parted  from  the 

whisper,  and  he  could  have  stooped  and  kissed 

her — something  that  never  in  his  life  had  he 

done — he  knew  that — but  the  old  reverence 

90 


Crittenden 

came  back  from  the  past  to  forbid  him,  and  he 
merely  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  flushing  a 
little. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  gently.  "  And  I  think 
you  are  just  tall  enough." 

In  a  flash  her  mood  changed,  and  she  drew 
his  head  down  until  she  could  just  touch  his 
forehead  with  her  lips.  It  was  a  sweet  bit  of 
motherliness — no  more — and  Crittenden  un 
derstood  and  was  grateful. 

"  Go  home,  now,"  she  said. 


VII 

AT  Tampa — the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  war. 

A  gigantic  hotel,  brilliant  with  lights, 
music,  flowers,  women;  halls  and  corridors 
filled  with  bustling  officers,  uniformed  from 
empty  straps  to  stars ;  volunteer  and  regular — 
easily  distinguished  by  the  ease  of  one  and  the 
new  and  conscious  erectness  of  the  other;  adju 
tants,  millionnaire  aids,  civilian  inspectors; 
gorgeous  attaches — English,  German,  Swed 
ish,  Russian,  Prussian,  Japanese — each  won 
drous  to  the  dazzled  republican  eye;  Cubans 
with  cigarettes,  Cubans — little  and  big,  war 
like,  with  the  tail  of  the  dark  eye  ever  woman- 
ward,  brave  with  machetes;  on  the  divans 
Cuban  seiioritas — refugees  at  Tampa — dark- 
eyed,  of  course,  languid  of  manner,  to  be  sure, 
and  with  the  eloquent  fan,  ever  present,  om 
nipotent — shutting  and  closing,  shutting  and 
closing,  like  the  wings  of  a  gigantic  butterfly ; 
adventurers,  adventuresses;  artists,  photog 
raphers;  correspondents  by  the  score — female 
92 


Crittenden 

correspondents;  story  writers,  novelists,  real 
war  correspondents,  and  real  draughtsmen — 
artists,  indeed;  and  a  host  of  lesser  men  with 
spurs  vet  to  win — all  crowding  the  hotel  day 
and  night,  night  and  day. 

And  outside,  to  the  sea — camped  in  fine 
white  sand  dust,  Tinder  thick  stars  and  a  hot 
sun — soldiers,  soldiers  everywhere,  lounging 
through  the  streets  and  the  railway  stations, 
overrunning  the  suburbs;  drilling  —  horse 
back  and  on  foot — through  clouds  of  sand; 
drilling  at  skirmish  over  burnt  sedge-grass 
and  stunted  and  charred  pine  woods;  riding 
horses  into  the  sea,  and  plunging  in  them 
selves  like  truant  school-boys.  In  the  bay  a 
fleet  of  waiting  transports,  and  all  over  dock, 
camp,  town,  and  hotel  an  atmosphere  of 
fierce  unrest  and  of  eager  longing  to  fill  those 
wooden  hulks,  rising  and  falling  with  such 
maddening  patience  on  the  tide,  and  to  be 
away.  All  the  time,  meanwhile,  soldiers  com 
ing  in — more  and  more  soldiers — in  freight- 
box,  day-coach,  and  palace-car. 

That    night,    in    the    hotel,    Grafton    and 

Crittenden  watched  the  crowd  from  a  divan 

of  red   plush,    Grafton   chatting   incessantly. 

Around  them  moved  and  sat  the  women  of  the 

93 


Crittenden 

"House  of  the  Hundred  Thousand" — officers' 
wives  and  daughters  and  sisters  and  sweet 
hearts  and  army  widows — claiming  rank  and 
giving  it  more  or  less  consciously,  according 
to  the  rank  of  the  man  whom  they  repre 
sented.  The  big  man  with  the  monocle  and 
the  suit  of  towering  white  from  foot  to  crown 
was  the  English  naval  attache.  He  stalked 
through  the  hotel  as  though  he  had  the  Brit 
ish  Empire  at  his  back. 

"  And  he  has,  too,"  said  Grafton.  "  You 
ought  to  see  him  go  down  the  steps  to  the  cafe. 
The  door  is  too  low  for  him.  Other  tall  peo 
ple  bend  forward — he  always  rears  back." 

And  the  picturesque  little  fellow  with  the 
helmet  was  the  English  military  attache. 
Crittenden  had  seen  him  at  Chickamauga, 
and  Grafton  said  they  would  hear  of  him  in 
Cuba.  The  Prussian  was  handsome,  and  a 
Count.  The  big,  boyish  blond  was  a  Rus 
sian,  and  a  Prince,  as  was  the  quiet,  modest, 
little  Japanese — a  mighty  warrior  in  his  own 
country.  And  the  Swede,  the  polite,  the  ex 
quisite! 

"  He  wears  a  mustache  guard.     I  offered 
him  a  cigar.     He  saluted :     '  Thank  you/  he 
said.    '  Nevare  I  schmoke.' ' 
94 


Crittenden 

"  They  are  the  pets  of  the  expedition,"  Graf- 
ton  went  on,  "  they  and  that  war-like  group 
of  correspondents  over  there.  They'll  go 
down  on  the  flag-ship,  while  we  nobodies  will 
herd  together  on  one  boat.  But  we'll  all  be 
on  the  same  footing  when  we  get  there." 

Just  then  a  big  man,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
next  divan  twisting  his  mustache  and  talking 
chiefly  with  his  hands,  rolled  up  and  called 
Grafton. 

"Huh!"  he  said. 

"  Huh  !  "  mimicked  Grafton. 

"  You  don't  know  much  about  the  army." 

"  Six  weeks  ago  I  couldn't  tell  a  doughboy 
officer  from  a  cavalryman  by  the  stripe  down 
his  legs." 

The  big  man  smiled  with  infinite  pity  and 
tolerance. 

"  Therefore,"  said  Grafton,  "  I  shall  not 
pass  judgment,  deliver  expert  military  opin 
ions,  and  decide  how  the  campaign  ought  to  be 
conducted — well,  maybe  for  some  days  yet." 

"  You've  got  to.  You  must  have  a  policy 
— a  Policy.  I'll  give  you  one." 

And  he  began — favoring  monosyllables, 
dashes,  exclamation  points,  pauses  for  panto 
mime,  Indian  sign  language,  and  heys,  huhs, 
95 


Crittenden 

and  Immphs  that  were  intended  to  fill  out  sen 
tences  and  round  up  elaborate  argument. 

"  There  is  a  lot  any  damn  fool  can  say,  of 
course,  hey?  But  you  mustn't  say  it,  huh? 
Give  'em  hell  afterward."  (Pantomime.) 
"  That's  right,  ain't  it?  Understand?  Keg- 
ular  army  all  right."  (Sign  language.) 
"  These  damn  fools  outside — volunteers,  poli 
ticians,  hey?  Had  best  army  in  the  world  at 
the  close  of  the  old  war,  see?  Best  equipped, 
you  understand,  huh?  Congress"  (violent 
Indian  sign  language)  "  wanted  to  squash  it — 
to  sqush  it — that's  right,  you  understand, 
huh?  Cut  it  down — cut  it  down,  see?  Illus 
trate:  Wanted  18,000  mules  for  this  push, 
got  2,000,  see?  Same  principle  all  through; 
see?  That's  right!  ~No  good  to  say  anything 
now — people  think  you  complain  of  the  regu 
lar  army,  huh?  Mustn't  say  anything  now 
— give  'em  hell  afterward — understand  ?  " 
(More  sign  language.)  "  Hell  afterward. 
All  right  now,  got  your  policy,  go  ahead." 

Grafton  nodded  basely,  and  without  a 
smile : 

"  Thanks,  old  man — thanks.  It's  very 
lucid." 

A  little  later  Crittenden  saw  the  stout  civil- 
96 


Crittenden 

ian,  Major  Billings,  fairly  puffing  with  pride, 
excitement,  and  a  fine  uniform  of  khaki, 
whom  he  had  met  at  Chickamauga;  and 
Willings,  the  surgeon,  and  Chaffee,  now  a 
brigadier;  and  Lawton,  soon  to  command  a 
division;  and,  finally,  little  Jerry  Carter, 
quiet,  unassuming,  dreamy,  slight,  old,  but 
active,  and  tough  as  hickory.  The  little 
general  greeted  Crittenden  like  a  son. 

"  I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  again  at  Chick 
amauga,  but  I  started  here  next  day.  I  have 
just  written  you  that  there  was  a  place  on  my 
staff  for  you  or  your  brother — or  for  any  son 
of  your  father  and  my  friend.  I'll  write  to 
Washington  for  you  to-night,  and  you  can  re 
port  for  duty  whenever  you  please." 

The  little  man  made  the  astounding  propo 
sition  as  calmly  as  though  he  were  asking  the 
Kentuckian  to  a  lunch  of  bacon  and  hardtack, 
and  Crittenden  flushed  with  gratitude  and  his 
heart  leaped — his  going  was  sure  now.  Before 
he  could  stammer  out  his  thanks,  the  general 
was  gone.  Just  then  Rivers,  who,  to  his  great 
joy,  had  got  at  least  that  far,  sat  down  by  him. 
He  was  much  depressed.  His  regiment  was 
going,  but  twro  companies  would  be  left  be 
hind.  His  colonel  talked  about  sending  liiin 
97 


Crittenden 

back  to  Kentucky  to  bring  down  some  horses, 
and  he  was  afraid  to  go. 

"  To  think  of  being  in  the  army  as  long  as 
I  have  been,  just  for  this  fight.  And  to  think 
of  being  left  here  in  this  hell-hole  all  summer, 
and  missing  all  the  fun  in  Cuba,  not  to  speak 
of  the  glory  and  the  game.  We  haven't  had 
a  war  for  so  long  that  glory  will  come  easy 
now,  and  anybody  who  does  anything  will  be 
promoted.  But  it's  missing  the  fight — the 
fight — that  worries  me,"  and  Rivers  shook  his 
head  from  side  to  side  dejectedly.  "  If  my 
company  goes,  I'm  all  right;  but  if  it  doesn't, 
there  is  no  chance  for  me  if  I  go  away.  I 
shall  lose  my  last  chance  of  slipping  in  some 
where.  I  swear  I'd  rather  go  as  a  private 
than  not  at  all." 

This  idea  gave  Crittenden  a  start,  and  made 
him  on  the  sudden  very  thoughtful. 

"  Can  you  get  me  in  as  a  private  at  the  last 
minute  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rivers,  quickly,  "  and  I'll  tele 
graph  you  in  plenty  of  time,  so  that  you  can 
get  back." 

Crittenden  smiled,  for  Rivers's  plan  was 
plain,  but  he  was  thinking  of  a  plan  of  his 
own. 

98 


Crittenden 

Meanwhile,  he  drilled  as  a  private  each  day. 
He  was  ignorant  of  the  Krag-Jorgensen,  and  at 
Chickamanga  he  had  made  such  a  laughable 
exhibition  of  himself  that  the  old  sergeant 
took  him  off  alone  one  day,  and  when  they 
came  back  the  sergeant  was  observed  to  be 
smiling  broadly.  At  the  first  target  practice 
thereafter,  Crittenden  stood  among  the  first 
men  of  the  company,  and  the  captain  took 
mental  note  of  him  as  a  sharp-shooter  to  be 
remembered  when  they  got  to  Cuba.  With 
the  drill  he  had  little  trouble — being  a  nat 
ural-born  horseman  —  so  one  day,  when  a 
trooper  was  ill,  he  was  allowed  to  take  the 
sick  soldier's  place  and  drill  with  the  regi 
ment.  That  day  his  trouble  with  Reynolds 
came.  All  the  soldiers  were  free  and  easy 
of  speech  and  rather  reckless  with  epithets, 
and,  knowing  how  little  was  meant,  Critten 
den  merely  remonstrated  with  the  bully  and 
smilingly  asked  him  to  desist. 

"Suppose  I  don't?" 

Crittenden  smiled  again  and  answered 
nothing,  and  Reynolds  mistook  his  silence  for 
timidity.  At  right  wheel,  a  little  later,  Crit 
tenden  squeezed  the  bully's  leg,  and  Reynolds 
cursed  him.  He  might  have  passed  that  with 
99 


Crittenden 

a  last  warning,  but,  as  they  wheeled  again,  he 
saw  Reynolds  kick  Sanders  so  violently  that 
the  boy's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  went 
straight  for  the  soldier  as  soon  as  the  drill 
was  over. 

"  Put  up  your  guard." 

"Aw,  go  to " 

The  word  was  checked  at  his  lips  by  Crit- 
tenden's  fist.  In  a  rage,  Reynolds  threw  his 
hand  behind  him,  as  though  he  would  pull 
his  revolver,  but  his  wrist  was  caught  by 
sinewy  fingers  from  behind.  It  was  Black- 
ford,  smiling  into  his  purple  face. 

"  Hold  on!  "  he  said,  "  save  that  for  a  Span 
iard." 

At  once,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  men  led 
the  way  behind  the  tents,  and  made  a  ring — 
Blackford,  without  a  word,  acting  as  Critten- 
den's  second.  Reynolds  was  the  champion 
bruiser  of  the  regiment  and  a  boxer  of  no 
mean  skill,  and  Blackford  looked  anxious. 

"  Worry  him,  and  he'll  lose  his  head. 
Don't  try  to  do  him  up  too  quickly." 

Reynolds  was  coarse,  disdainful  and  tri 
umphant,  but  he  did  not  look  quite  so  confi 
dent  when  Crittenden  stripped  and  showed  a 
white  body,  closely  jointed  at  shoulder  and 


Crittenden 

elbow  and  at  knee  and  thigh,  and  closely  knit 
with  steel-like  tendons.  The  long  muscles  of 
his  back  slipped  like  eels  under  his  white  skin. 
Blackford  looked  relieved. 

"  Do  you  know  the  game?  " 

"A  little." 

"  Worry  him  and  wait  till  he  loses  his  head 
— remember,  now." 

"All  right,"  said  Crittenden,  cheerfully, 
and  turned  and  faced  Reynolds,  smiling. 

"  Gawd,"  said  Abe  Long.  "  He's  one  o' 
the  fellows  that  laugh  when  they're  fightin'. 
They're  worse  than  the  cryin'  sort — a  sight 
worse." 

The  prophecy  in  the  soldier's  tone  soon 
came  true.  The  smile  never  left  Crittenden's 
face,  even  when  it  was  so  bruised  up  that 
smiling  was  difficult;  but  the  onlookers  knew 
that  the  spirit  of  the  smile  was  still  there. 
Blackford  himself  was  smiling  now.  Critten 
den  struck  but  for  one  place  at  first — Rey- 
nolds's  nose,  which  was  naturally  large  and 
red,  because  he  could  reach  it  every  time  he 
led  out.  The  nose  swelled  and  still  reddened, 
and  Reynolds's  small  black  eyes  narrowed  and 
flamed  with  a  wicked  light.  He  fought  with 
his  skill  at  first,  but  those  maddening  taps  on 
101 


Crittenden 

his  nose  made  him  lose  his  head  altogether  in 
the  sixth  round,  and  he  senselessly  rushed  at 
Crittenden  with  lowered  head,  like  a  sheep. 
Crittenden  took  him  sidewise  on  his  jaw  as 
he  came,  and  stepped  aside.  Reynolds  pitched 
to  the  ground  heavily,  and  Crittenden  bent 
over  him. 

"  You  let  that  boy  alone,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  and  then  aloud  and  calmly: 

"  I  don't  like  this,  but  it's  in  deference  to 
your  customs.  I  don't  call  names,  and  I  allow 
nobody  to  call  me  names ;  and  if  I  have  another 
fight,"  Reynolds  was  listening  now,  "  it  won't 
be  with  my  fists." 

"  Well,  Mister  Man  from  Kentucky,"  said 
Abe,  "  I'd  a  dam  sight  ruther  you'd  use  a  club 
on  me  than  them  fists;  but  there's  others  of 
us  who  don't  call  names,  and  ain't  called 
names;  and  some  of  us  ain't  easy  skeered, 
neither." 

"  I  wasn't  threatening,"  said  Crittenden, 
quickly,  "  but  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  that 
sort  of  thing  flying  around,  and  I  don't  want 
to  get  into  this  sort  of  a  thing  again."  He 
looked  steadily  at  the  soldier,  but  the  eye  of 
Abraham  Long  quailed  not  at  all.  Instead,  a 
smile  broke  over  his  face. 
102 


Crittenden 

"  I  got  a  drink  waitin'  fer  you,"  lie  said; 
and  Crittenden  laughed. 

"  Git  up  an'  shake  hands,  Jim,"  said  Abe, 
sternly,  to  Crittenden's  opponent,  "  an'  let's 
have  a  drink."  Reynolds  got  up  slowly. 

"  You  gimme  a  dam  good  lickin',"  he  said 
to  Crittenden.  "Shake!" 

Crittenden  shook,  and  seconds  and  princi 
pals  started  for  Long's  tent. 

"  Boys,"  he  said  to  the  others,  "  I'm  sorry 
for  ye.     I  ain't  got  but  four  drinks — and — 
the  old  sergeant  was  approaching;  "  and  one 
more  fer  the  Governor." 

Rivers  smiled  broadly  when  he  saw  Critten 
den  at  noon. 

"  The  i  Governor  '  told  me,"  he  said,  "  you 
couldn't  do  anything  in  this  regiment  that 
would  do  you  more  good  with  officers  and 
men.  That  fellow  has  caused  us  more  trouble 
than  any  other  ten  men  in  the  regiment,  and 
you  are  the  first  man  yet  to  get  the  best  of  him. 
If  the  men  could  elect  you,  you'd  be  a  lieuten 
ant  before  to-morrow  night." 

Crittenden  laughed. 

"  It  was  disgusting,  but  I  didn't  see  any 
other  way  out  of  it." 

Tattoo  was  sounded. 
103 


Crittenden 

"  Are  you  sure  you  can  get  me  into  the 
army  at  any  time  ?  " 

"  Easy — as  a  private." 

"What  regiment?" 

"  Rough  Riders  or  Regulars." 

"  All  right,  then,  I'll  go  to  Kentucky  for 
you." 

"  No,  old  man.  I  was  selfish  enough  to 
think  it,  but  I'm  not  selfish  enough  to  do  it. 
I  won't  have  it." 

"  But  I  want  to  go  back.  If  I  can  get  in 
at  the  last  moment  I  should  go  back  anyhow 
to-night." 

"  Really?  " 

"  Really.  Just  see  that  you  let  me  know 
in  time." 

Rivers  grasped  his  hand. 

"  I'll  do  that." 

ISText  morning  rumors  were  flying.  In  a 
week,  at  least,  they  would  sail.  And  still 
regiments  rolled  in,  and  that  afternoon  Crit 
tenden  saw  the  regiment  come  in  for  which 
Grafton  had  been  waiting  —  a  picturesque 
body  of  fighting  men  and,  perhaps,  the  most 
typical  American  regiment  formed  since  Jack 
son  fought  at  New  Orleans.  At  the  head  of  it 
.rode  two  men — one  with  a  quiet  mesmeric 
104 


Crittenden 

power  that  bred  perfect  trust  at  sight,  the 
other  with  the  kindling  power  of  enthusiasm, 
and  a  passionate  energy,  mental,  physical, 
emotional,  that  was  tireless;  each  a  man 
among  men,  and  both  together  an  ideal  leader 
for  the  thousand  Americans  at  their  heels. 
Behind  them  rode  the  Rough  Riders — dusty, 
travel-stained  troopers,  gathered  from  every 
State,  every  walk  of  labor  and  leisure,  every 
social  grade  in  the  Union — day  laborer  and 
millionnaire,  clerk  and  clubman,  college  boys 
and  athletes,  Southern  revenue  officers  and 
Northern  policemen;  but  most  of  them  West 
erners — Texan  rangers,  sheriffs,  and  despera 
does — the  men-hunters  and  the  men-hunted; 
Indians;  followers  of  all  political  faiths,  all 
creeds  —  Catholics,  Protestants,  Jews;  but 
cow-boys  for  the  most  part;  daredevils,  to 
be  sure,  but  good-natured,  good-hearted, 
picturesque,  fearless.  And  Americans — 
all! 

As  the  last  troopers  filed  past,  Crittenden 
followed  them  with  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  a  lit 
tle  way  off  Blackford  standing  with  folded 
arms  on  the  edge  of  a  cloud  of  dust  and  look 
ing  after  them  too,  with  his  face  set  as  though 
he  were  buried  deep  in  a  thousand  memories. 
105 


Crittenden 

He  started  when  Crittenden  spoke  to  him,  and 
the  dark  fire  of  his  eyes  flashed. 

"  That's  where  I  belong,"  he  said,  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  after  the  retreating  column. 
"  I  don't  know  one  of  them,  and  I  know  them 
all.  I've  gone  to  college  with  some;  I've 
hunted,  fished,  camped,  drank,  and  gambled 
with  the  others.  I  belong  with  them;  and 
I'm  going  with  them  if  I  can;  I'm  trying  to 
get  an  exchange  now." 

"  Well,  luck  to  you,  and  good-by,"  said 
Crittenden,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  I'm  go 
ing  home  to-night." 

"  But  you're  coming  back?  " 

"  Yes." 

Blackford  hesitated. 

"Are  you  going  to  join  this  outfit?" — 
meaning  his  own  regiment. 

"  I  don't  know;  this  or  the  Rough  Riders." 

"  Well,"  Blackford  seemed  embarrassed, 
and  his  manner  was  almost  respectful,  "  if 
we  go  together,  what  do  you  say  to  our  going 
as  '  bunkies  '?  " 

"Sure!" 

"  Thank  you." 

The  two  men  grasped  hands. 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  back." 
106 


Crittenden 

"  I'm  sure  to  come  back.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by,  sir." 

The  unconscious  "  sir  "  startled  Crittenden. 
It  was  merely  habit,  of  course,  and  the  fact 
that  Crittenden  was  not  yet  enlisted,  but  there 
was  an  unintended  significance  in  the  soldier's 
tone  that  made  him  wince.  Blackford  turned 
sharply  away,  flushing. 


107 


VIII 

BACK  in  the  Bluegrass,  the  earth  was  flash 
ing  with  dew,  and  the  air  was  brilliant  with 
a  steady  light  that  on  its  way  from  the  sun 
was  broken  by  hardly  a  cloud.  The  wood 
land  was  alive  with  bird-wing  and  bird-song 
and,  under  them,  with  the  flash  of  metal  and 
the  joy  of  breaking  camp.  The  town  was  a 
mighty  pedestal  for  flag-staffs.  Everywhere 
flags  were  shaken  out.  Main  Street,  at  a  dis 
tance,  looked  like  a  long  lane  of  flowers  in  a 
great  garden — all  blowing  in  a  wind.  Under 
them,  crowds  were  gathered — country  people, 
negroes,  and  townfolk — while  the  town  band 
stood  waiting  at  the  gate  of  the  park.  The 
Legion  was  making  ready  to  leave  for  Chicka- 
mauga,  and  the  town  had  made  ready  to  speed 
its  going. 

Out  of  the  shady  woodland,  and  into  the 
bright  sunlight,  the  young  soldiers  came — to 
the  music  of  stirring  horn  and  drum — legs 
swinging  rhythmically,  chins  well  set  in,  eyes 
to  the  front — wheeling  into  the  main  street  in 
108 


Crittenden 

perfect  form — their  guns  a  moving  forest  of 
glinting  steel— colonel  and  staff  superbly 
mounted  --  every  heart  beating  proudly 
against  every  blue  blouse,  and  sworn  to  give 
up  its  blood  for  the  flag  waving  over  them — 
the  flag  the  fathers  of  many  had  so  bitterly 
fought  five  and  thirty  years  before.  Down 
the  street  went  the  flash  and  glitter  and 
steady  tramp  of  the  solid  columns,  through 
waving  flags  and  handkerchiefs  and  mad 
cheers — cheers  that  arose  before  them,  swelled 
away  on  either  side  and  sank  out  of  hearing 
behind  them  as  they  marched — through  faces 
bravely  smiling,  when  the  eyes  were  full  of 
tears;  faces  tense  with  love,  anxiety,  fear; 
faces  sad  with  bitter  memories  of  the  old  war. 
On  the  end  of  the  first  rank  was  the  boy  Basil, 
file-leader  of  his  squad,  swinging  proudly,  his 
handsome  face  serious  and  fixed,  his  eyes 
turning  to  right  nor  left — seeing  not  his 
mother,  proud,  white,  tearless;  nor  Critten 
den,  with  a  lump  of  love  in  his  throat;  nor 
even  little  Phyllis — her  pride  in  her  boy-sol 
dier  swept  suddenly  out  of  her  aching  heart, 
her  eyes  brimming,  and  her  handkerchief  at 
her  mouth  to  keep  bravely  back  the  sob  that 
surged  at  her  lips.  The  station  at  last,  and 
109 


Crittenden 

then  cheers  and  kisses  and  sobs,  and  tears  and 
cheers  again,  and  a  waving  of  hands  and  flags 
and  handkerchiefs — a  column  of  smoke  puff 
ing  on  and  on  toward  the  horizon — the  van 
ishing  perspective  of  a  rear  platform  filled 
with  jolly,  reckless,  waving,  yelling  soldiers, 
and  the  tragedy  of  the  parting  was  over. 

How  every  detail  of  earth  and  sky  was 
seared  deep  into  the  memory  of  the  women 
left  behind  that  afternoon — as  each  drove 
slowly  homeward:  for  God  help  the  women 
in  days  of  war!  The  very  peace  of  heaven 
lay  upon  the  earth.  It  sank  from  the  low, 
moveless  clouds  in  the  windless  sky  to  the  sun 
lit  trees  in  the  windless  woods,  as  still  as  the 
long  shadows  under  them.  It  lay  over  the 
still  seas  of  bluegrass — dappled  in  woodland, 
sun-lit  in  open  pasture — resting  on  low  hills 
like  a  soft  cloud  of  bluish  gray,  clinging 
closely  to  every  line  of  every  peaceful  slope. 
Stillness  everywhere.  Still  cattle  browsing  in 
the  distance;  sheep  asleep  in  the  far  shade  of 
a  cliff,  shadowing  the  still  stream;  even  the 
song  of  birds  distant,  faint,  restful.  Peace 
everywhere,  but  little  peace  in  the  heart  of 
the  mother  to  whose  lips  was  raised  once  more 
the  self -same  cup  that  she  had  drained  so  long 
no 


Crittenden 

ago.  Peace  everywhere  but  for  Phyllis  climb 
ing  the  stairs  to  her  own  room  and  flinging 
herself  upon  her  bed  in  a  racking  passion  of 
tears.  God  help  the  women  in  the  days  of 
war!  Peace  from  the  dome  of  heaven  to  the 
heart  of  the  earth,  but  a  gnawing  unrest 
for  Judith,  who  walked  very  slowly  down 
the  gravelled  walk  and  to  the  stiles,  and  sat 
looking  over  the  quiet  fields.  Only  in  her 
eyes  was  the  light  not  wholly  of  sadness,  but 
a  proud  light  of  sacrifice  and  high  resolve. 
Crittenden  was  coming  that  night.  He  was 
going  for  good  now ;  he  was  coming  to  tell  her 
good-by;  and  he  must  not  go — to  his  death, 
maybe — without  knowing  what  she  had  to 
tell  him.  It  was  not  much — it  was  very  little, 
in  return  for  his  life-long  devotion — that  she 
should  at  least  tell  him  how  she  had  wholly 
outgrown  her  girlish  infatuation — she  knew 
now  that  it  was  nothing  else — for  the  one  man 
who  had  stood  in  her  life  before  him,  and 
that  now  there  was  no  other — lover  or  friend 
— for  whom  she  had  the  genuine  affection  that 
she  would  always  have  for  him.  She  would 
tell  him  frankly — she  was  a  grown  woman 
now — because  she  thought  she  owed  that 
much  to  him — because,  under  the  circum- 
iii 


Crittenden 

stances,  she  thought  it  was  her  duty:  and  he 
would  not  misunderstand  her,  even  if  he 
really  did  not  have  quite  the  old  feeling  for 
her.  Then,  recalling  what  he  had  said  on  the 
drive,  she  laughed  softly.  It  was  preposter 
ous.  She  understood  all  that.  He  had  acted 
that  little  part  so  many  times  in  by-gone  years ! 
And  she  had  always  pretended  to  take  him 
seriously,  for  she  would  have  given  him 
mortal  offence  had  she  not;  and  she  was  pre 
tending  to  take  him  seriously  now.  And, 
anyhow,  what  could  he  misunderstand? 
There  was  nothing  to  misunderstand. 

And  so,  during  her  drive  home,  she  had 
thought  all  the  way  of  him  and  of  herself 
since  both  were  children — of  his  love  and  his 
long  faithfulness,  and  of  her — her — what? 
Yes — she  had  been  something  of  a  coquette 
— she  had — she  had:  but  men  had  bothered 
and  worried  her,  and,  usually,  she  couldn't 
help  acting  as  she  had.  She  was  so  sorry  for 
them  all  that  she  had  really  tried  to  like  them 
all.  She  had  succeeded  but  once — and  even 
that  was  a  mistake.  But  she  remembered  one 
thing:  through  it  all — far  back  as  it  all  was 
— she  had  never  trifled  with  Crittenden.  Be 
fore  him  she  had  dropped  foils  and  mask  and 


Crittenden 

stood  frankly  face  to  face  always.  There  was 
something  in  him  that  had  always  forced  that. 
And  he  had  loved  her  through  it  all,  and  he 
had  suffered — how  much,  it  had  really  never 
occurred  to  her  until  she  thought  of  a  sudden 
that  he  must  have  been  hurt  as  had  she — hurt 
more :  for  what  had  been  only  infatuation  with 
her  had  been  genuine  passion  in  him :  and  the 
months  of  her  uiihappiness  scarcely  matched 
the  years  of  his.  There  was  none  other  in 
her  life  now  but  him,  and,  somehow,  she  was 
beginning  to  feel  there  never  would  be.  If 
there  were  only  any  way  that  she  could  make 
amends. 

J^ever  had  she  thought  with  such  tender 
ness  of  him.  How  strong  and  brave  he  was; 
how  high-minded  and  faithful.  And  he  was 
good,  in  spite  of  all  that  foolish  talk  about  him 
self.  And  all  her  life  he  had  loved  her,  and 
he  had  suffered.  She  could  see  that  he  was 
still  unhappy.  If,  then,  there  was  no  other, 
and  was  to  be  no  other,  and  if,  when  he  came 
back  from  the  war — why  not? 

Why  not? 

She  felt  a  sudden  warmth  in  her  cheeks, 
her  lips  parted,  and  as  she  turned  from  the  sun 
set  her  eyes  had  all  its  deep  tender  light, 
113 


Crittenden 

Dusk  was  falling,  and  already  Raincrow 
and  Crittenden  were  jogging  along  toward  her 
at  that  hour — the  last  trip  for  either  for  many 
a  day — the  last  for  either  in  life,  maybe — for 
Raincrow,  too,  like  his  master,  was  going  to 
war — while  Bob,  at  home,  forbidden  by  his 
young  captain  to  follow  him  to  Chickamauga, 
trailed  after  Crittenden  about  the  place  with 
the  appealing  look  of  a  dog — enraged  now  arid 
then  by  the  taunts  of  the  sharp-tongued  Molly, 
who  had  the  little  confidence  in  the  courage 
of  her  fellows  that  marks  her  race. 

Judith  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  porch, 
and  Crittenden  saw  her  from  afar. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  evening  in  pure 
white — delicate,  filmy — showing  her  round, 
white  throat  and  round,  white  wrists.  Her 
eyes  were  soft  and  welcoming  and  full  of 
light;  her  manner  was  playful  to  the  point  of 
coquetry:  and  in  sharp  contrast,  now  and 
then,  her  face  was  intense  with  thought.  A 
faint,  pink  light  was  still  diffused  from  the 
afterglow,  and  she  took  him  down  into  her 
mother's  garden,  which  was  old-fashioned  and 
had  grass-walks  running  down  through  it- — 
bordered  with  pink  beds  and  hedges  of  rose 
bushes.  And  they  passed  under  a  shadowed 
114 


Crittenden 

grape-arbor  and  past  a  dead  locust-tree,  which 
a  vine  had  made  into  a  green  tower  of  waving 
tendrils,  and  from  which  came  the  fragrant 
breath  of  wild  grape,  and  back  again  to  the 
gate,  where  Judith  reached  down  for  an  old- 
fashioned  pink  and  pinned  it  in  his  button 
hole,  talking  with  low,  friendly  affection, 
meanwhile,  and  turning  backward  the  leaves 
of  the  past  rapidly. 

Did  he  remember  this — and  that — and 
that?  Memories — memories — memories.  Was 
there  anything  she  had  let  go  unforgotten? 
And  then,  as  they  approached  the  porch  in 
answer  to  a  summons  to  supper,  brought  out 
by  a  little  negro  girl,  she  said: 

"  You  haven't  told  me  what  regiment  you 
are  going  with." 

"  I  don't  know." 

Judith's  eyes  brightened.  "  I'm  so  glad 
you  have  a  commission." 

"  I  have  no  commission." 

Judith  looked  puzzled.  "Why,  your 
mother— 

"  Yes,  but  I  gave  it  to  Basil."  And  he  ex 
plained  in  detail.  He  had  asked  General 
Carter  to  give  the  commission  to  Basil,  and  the 
General  had  said  he  would  gladly.  And  that 


Crittenden 

morning  the  colonel  of  the  Legion  had  prom 
ised  to  recommend  Basil  for  the  exchange. 
This  was  one  reason  why  he  had  come  back 
to  the  bluegrass.  Judith's  face  was  growing 
more  thoughtful  while  he  spoke,  and  a  proud 
light  was  rising  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  you  are  going  as " 

"  As  a  private." 

"  With  the  Rough  Riders?  " 

"  As  a  regular — a  plain,  common  soldier, 
with  plain,  common  soldiers.  I  am  trying  to 
be  an  American  now — not  a  Southerner.  I've 
been  drilling  at  Tampa  and  Chickamauga 
with  the  regulars." 

"  You  are  much  interested?  " 

"  More  than  in  anything  for  years." 

She  had  seen  this,  and  she  resented  it, 
foolishly,  she  knew,  and  without  reason — but, 
still,  she  resented  it. 

"  Think  of  it,"  Crittenden  went  on.  "  It 
is  the  first  time  in  my  life,  almost,  I  have 
known  what  it  was  to  wish  to  do  something — - 
to  have  a  purpose — that  was  not  inspired  by 
you."  It  was  an  unconscious  and  rather  un 
gracious  declaration  of  independence — it  was 
unnecessary  —  and  Judith  was  surprised, 
chilled — hurt. 

116 


Crittenden 

"When  do  you  go?" 

Crittenden  pulled  a  telegram  from  his 
pocket. 

"  To-morrow  morning.  I  got  this  just  as 
I  was  leaving  town." 

"  To-morrow!  " 

"  It  means  life  or  death  to  me — this  tele 
gram.  And  if  it  doesn't  mean  life,  I  don't 
care  for  the  other.  I  shall  come  out  with  a 
commission  or — not  at  all.  If  dead,  I  shall 
be  a  hero — if  alive,"  he  smiled,  "  I  don't  know 
what  I'll  be,  but  think  of  me  as  a  hero,  dead 
or  alive,  with  my  past  and  my  present.  I  can 
feel  a  change  already,  a  sort  of  growing  pain, 
at  the  very  thought." 

"  When  do  you  go  to  Cuba? " 

"  Within  four  days." 

"  Four  days !  And  you  can  talk  as  you  do, 
when  you  are  going  to  war  to  live  the  life  of 
a  common  soldier — to  die  of  fever,  to  be  killed, 
maybe,"  her  lip  shook  and  she  stopped,  but 
she  went  on  thickly,  "  and  be  thrown  into  an 
unknown  grave  or  lie  unburied  in  a  jungle." 
She  spoke  with  such  sudden  passion  that  Crit 
tenden  was  startled. 

"  Listen !  " 

Judge  Page  appeared  in  the  doorway,  wel- 
117 


Crittenden 

coming  Crittenden  with  old-time  grace  and 
courtesy.  Through  supper,  Judith  was  silent 
and  thoughtful  and,  when  she  did  talk,  it  was 
with  a  perceptible  effort.  There  was  a  light 
in  her  eyes  that  he  would  have  understood 
once — that  would  have  put  his  heart  on  fire. 
And  once  he  met  a  look  that  he  was  wholly 
at  loss  to  understand.  After  supper,  she  dis 
appeared  while  the  two  men  smoked  on  the 
porch.  The  moon  was  rising  when  she  came 
out  again.  The  breath  of  honeysuckles  was 
heavy  on  the  air,  and  from  garden  and  fields 
floated  innumerable  odors  of  flower  and  clover 
blossom  and  moist  grasses.  Crittenden  lived 
often  through  that  scene  afterward — Judith 
on  the  highest  step  of  the  porch,  the  light 
from  the  hallway  on  her  dress  and  her  tightly 
folded  hands;  her  face  back  in  shadow,  from 
which  her  eyes  glowed  with  a  fire  in  them  that 
he  had  never  seen  before. 

Judge  Page  rose  soon  to  go  indoors.  He 
did  not  believe  there  was  going  to  be  much  of 
a  war  and  his  manner  was  almost  cheery  when 
he  bade  the  young  man  good-by. 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  he  said.  "If  the 
chance  comes,  you  will  give  a  good  account  of 
yourself.  I  never  knew  a  man  of  your  name 
who  didn't." 


Crittenden 

"  Thank  you,  sir." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Basil  will  hardly  have  time  to  get  his 
commission,  and  get  to  Tampa." 

"  "No.    But  he  can  come  after  us." 

She  turned  suddenly  upon  him. 

"  Yes — something  has  happened  to  you.  I 
didn't  know  what  you  meant  that  day  we  drove 
home,  but  I  do  now.  I  feel  it,  but  I  don't 
understand." 

Crittenden  flushed,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  You  could  not  have  spoken  to  me  in  the 
old  days  as  you  do  now.  Your  instinct  would 
have  held  you  back.  And  something  has  hap 
pened  to  me."  Then  she  began  talking  to  him 
as  frankly  and  simply  as  a  child  to  a  child. 
It  was  foolish  and  selfish,  but  it  had  hurt  her 
when  he  told  her  that  he  no  longer  had  his  old 
feeling  for  her.  It  was  selfish  and  cruel,  but 
it  was  true,  however  selfish  and  cruel  it 
seemed,  and  was — but  she  had  felt  hurt.  Per 
haps  that  was  vanity,  which  was  not  to  her 
credit — but  that,  too,  she  could  not  help.  It 
had  hurt  her  every  time  he  had  said  anything 
from  which  she  could  infer  that  her  influence 
over  him  was  less  than  it  once  was — although, 
as  a  rule,  she  did  not  like  to  have  influence 
119 


Crittenden 

over  people.  Maybe  lie  wounded  her  as  his 
friend  in  this  way,  and,  perhaps,  there  was  a 
little  vanity  in  this,  too — but  a  curious  change 
was  taking  place  in  their  relations.  Once  he 
was  always  trying  to  please  her,  and  in  those 
days  she  would  have  made  him  suffer  if  he 
had  spoken  to  her  then  as  he  had  lately — but 
he  would  not  have  spoken  that  way  then.  And 
now  she  wondered  why  she  'was  not  angry  in 
stead  of  being  hurt.  And  she  wondered  why 
she  did  not  like  him  less.  Somehow,  it  seemed 
quite  fair  that  she  should  bo  the  one  to  suffer 
now,  and  she  was  glad  to  take  her  share — she 
had  caused  him  and  others  so  much  pain. 

"  He  "• — not  even  now  did  she  mention  his 
name — "  wrote  to  me  again,  not  long  ago, 
asking  to  see  me  again.  It  was  impossible. 
And  it  was  the  thought  of  you  that  made  me 
know  how  impossible  it  was — you."  The  girl 
laughed,  almost  hardly,  but  she  was  thinking 
of  herself  when  she  did — not  of  him. 

The  time  and  circumstance  that  make  wom 
an  the  thing  apart  in  a  man's  life  must  come 
sooner  or  later  to  all  women,  and  women  must 
yield;  she  knew  that,  but  she  had  never 
thought  they  could  come  to  her — but  they 
had  come,  and  she,  too,  must  give  way. 
120 


Crittenden 

"  It  is  all  very  strange,"  she  said,  as  though 
she  were  talking  to  herself,  and  she  rose  and 
walked  into  the  warm,  fragrant  night,  and 
down  the  path  to  the  stiles,  Crittenden  silently 
following.  The  night  was  breathless  and  the 
moon-lit  woods  had  the  still  beauty  of  a  dream ; 
and  Judith  went  on  speaking  of  herself  as  she 
had  never  done — of  the  man  whose  name  she 
had  never  mentioned,  and  whose  name  Crit 
tenden  had  never  asked.  Until  that  night,  he 
had  not  known  even  whether  the  man  were 
still  alive  or  dead.  She  had  thought  that  was 
love — until  lately  she  had  never  questioned 
but  that  when  that  was  gone  from  her  heart, 
all  was  gone  that  would  ever  be  possible  for 
her  to  know.  That  was  why  she  had  told 
Crittenden  to  conquer  his  love  for  her.  And 
now  she  was  beginning  to  doubt  and  to  won 
der — ever  since  she  came  back  and  heard  him 
at  the  old  auditorium — and  why  and  whence 
the  change  now?  That  puzzled  her.  One 
thing  was  curious — through  it  all,  as  far  back 
as  she  could  remember,  her  feeling  foi 
him  had  never  changed,  except  lately.  Per 
haps  it  was  an  unconscious  response  in  her  to 
the  nobler  change  that  in  spite  of  his  new 
hardness  her  instinct  told  her  was  at  work  in 

him. 

121 


Crittenden 

She  was  leaning  on  the  fence  now,  her 
elbow  on  the  top  plank,  her  hand  under  her 
chin,  and  her  face  uplifted — the  moon  light 
ing  her  hair,  her  face,  and  eyes,  and  her  voice 
the  voice  of  one  slowly  threading  the  mazes 
of  a  half-forgotten  dream.  Crittenden's  own 
face  grew  tense  as  he  watched  her.  There  was 
a  tone  in  her  voice  that  he  had  hungered  for 
all  his  life ;  that  he  had  never  heard  but  in  his 
imaginings  and  in  his  dreams;  that  he  had 
heard  sounding  in  the  ears  of  another  and 
sounding  at  the  same  time  the  death-knell  of 
the  one  hope  that  until  now  had  made  effort 
worth  while.  All  evening  she  had  played  about 
his  spirit  as  a  wistful,  changeful  light  will 
play  over  the  fields  when  the  moon  is  bright 
and  clouds  run  swiftly.  She  turned  on  him 
like  a  flame  now. 

"  Until  lately,"  she  was  saying,  and  she  was 
not  saying  at  all  what  she  meant  to  say;  but 
here  lately  a  change  was  taking  place;  some 
thing  had  come  into  her  feeling  for  him  that 
was  new  and  strange — she  could  not  under 
stand — perhaps  it  had  always  been  there ;  per 
haps  she  was  merely  becoming  conscious  of  it. 
And  when  she  thought,  as  she  had  been  think 
ing  all  day,  of  his  long  years  of  devotion — 


Crittenden 

how  badly  she  had  requited  them — it  seemed 
that  the  least  she  could  do  was  to  tell  him  that 
he  was  now  first  in  her  life  of  all  men — that 
much  she  could  say;  and  perhaps  he  had 
always  been,  she  did  not  know;  perhaps,  now 
that  the  half -gods  were  gone,  it  was  at  last  the 
coming  of  the — the —  She  was  deeply 

agitated  now;  her  voice  was  trembling;  she 
faltered,  and  she  turned  suddenly,  sharply, 
and  with  a  little  catch  in  her  breath,  her  lips 
and  eyes  opening  slowly — her  first  conscious 
ness,  perhaps,  a  wonder  at  his  strange  silence 
— and  dazed  by  her  own  feeling  and  flushing 
painfully,  she  looked  at  him  for  the  first  time 
since  she  began  to  talk,  and  she  saw  him  star 
ing  fixedly  at  her  with  a  half-agonized  look, 
as  though  he  were  speechlessly  trying  to  stop 
her,  his  face  white,  bitter,  shamed,  helpless. 
Not  a  word  more  dropped  from  her  lips — not 
a  sound.  She  moved;  it  seemed  that  she  was 
about  to  fall,  and  Crittenden  started  toward 
her,  but  she  drew  herself  erect,  and,  as  she 
turned — lifting  her  head  proudly — the  moon 
light  showed  that  her  throat  was  drawn- 
nothing  more.  Motionless  and  speechless, 
Crittenden  watched  her  white  shape  move 
slowly  and  quietly  up  the  walk  and  grow  dim; 
123 


Crittenden 

heard  her  light,  even  step  on  the  gravel,  up  the 
steps,  across  the  porch,  and  through  the  door 
way.  JSTot  once  did  she  look  around. 

He  was  in  his  room  now  and  at  his  window, 
his  face  hard  as  stone  when  his  heart  was 
parching  for  tears.  It  was  true,  then.  He 
was  the  brute  he  feared  he  was.  He  had 
killed  his  life,  and  he  had  killed  his  love — 
beyond  even  her  power  to  recall.  His  soul, 
too,  must  be  dead,  and  it  were  just  as  well  that 
his  body  die.  And,  still  bitter,  still  shamed 
and  hopeless,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  the 
South  with  a  fierce  longing  for  the  quick  fate 
—no  matter  what — that  was  waiting  for  him 
there. 


124 


IX 


BY  and  by  bulletins  began  to  come  in  to 
the  mother  at  Canewood  from  her  boy  at 
Tampa.  There  was  little  psychology  in  Ba 
sil's  bulletin: 

"  I  got  here  all  right.  My  commission  hasn't 
come,  and  I've  joined  the  Kough  Eiders,  for 
fear  it  won't  get  here  in  time.  The  Colonel 
was  very  kind  to  me — called  me  Mister. 

"  I've  got  a  lieutenant's  uniform  of  khaki, 
but  I'm  keeping  it  out  of  sight.  I  may  have 
no  use  for  it.  I've  got  two  left  spurs,  and  I'm 
writing  in  the  AYaldorf-Astoria.  I  like  these 
Northern  fellows;  they  are  gentlemen  and 
plucky — I  can  see  that.  Very  few  of  them 
swear.  I  wish  I  knew  where  brother  is. 
The  Colonel  calls  everybody  Mister — even  the 
Indians. 

"  Word  comes  to-night  that  we  are  to  be  off 

to  the  front.     Please  send  me  a  piece  of  cotton 

to  clean  my  gun.     And  please  be  easy  about 

me — do  be  easy.     And  if  you  insist  on  giving 

125 


Crittenden 

me  a  title,  don't  call  me  Private — call  me 
Trooper. 

"  Yes,  we  are  going;  the  thing  is  serious. 
We  are  all  packed  up  now;  have  rolled  up 
camping  outfit  and  are  ready  to  start. 

"  Baggage  on  the  transport  now,  and  we  sail 
this  afternoon.  Am  sorry  to  leave  all  of  you, 
and  I  have  a  tear  in  my  eye  now  that  I  can't 
keep  back.  It  isn't  a  summer  picnic,  and  I 
don't  feel  like  shouting  when  I  think  of  home ; 
but  I'm  always  lucky,  and  I'll  come  out  all 
right.  I'm  afraid  I  sha'n't  see  brother  at  all. 
I  tried  to  look  cheerful  for  my  picture  (en 
closed).  Good-by. 

"  Some  delay;  actually  on  board  and  steam 
up. 

"  Waiting  —  waiting  —  waiting.  It's  bad 
enough  to  go  to  Cuba  in  boats  like  these,  but 
to  lie  around  for  days  is  trying.  No  one  goes 
ashore,  and  I  can  hear  nothing  of  brother.  I 
wonder  why  the  General  didn't  give  him  that 
commission  instead  of  me.  There  is  a  curious 
sort  of  fellow  here,  who  says  he  knows  brother. 
His  name  is  Blackford,  and  he  is  very  kind  to 
me.  He  used  to  be  a  regular,  and  he  says  he 
thinks  brother  took  his  place  in  the  — th  and 
is  a  regular  now  himself — a  private;  I  don't 
126 


Crittenden 

understand.  There  is  mighty  little  Rough 
Riding  about  this. 

"  P.  S.  My  bunkie  is  from  Boston — Bob 
Sumner.  His  father  commanded  a  negro  reg- 
ment  in  a  figlit  once  against  my  father  ;  think 
of  it! 

"Hurrah!  we're  off." 

It  was  a  tropical  holiday — that  sail  down  to 
Cuba — a  strange,  huge  pleasure-trip  of  steam 
ships,  sailing  in  a  lordly  column  of  three;  at 
night,  sailing  always,  it  seemed,  in  a  harbor 
of  brilliant  lights  under  multitudinous  stars 
and  over  thickly  sown  beds  of  tiny  phosphor 
escent  stars  that  were  blown  about  like  flowers 
in  a  wind-storm  by  the  frothing  wake  of  the 
ships;  by  day,  through  a  brilliant  sunlit  sea,  a 
cool  breeze — so  cool  that  only  at  noon  was  the 
heat  tropical — and  over  smooth  water,  blue  as 
sapphire.  Music  night  and  morning,  on  each 
ship,  and  music  coming  across  the  little  waves 
at  any  hour  from  the  ships  about.  Porpoises 
frisking  at  the  bows  and  chasing  each  other  in 
a  circle  around  bow  and  stern  as  though  the 
transports  sat  motionless;  schools  of  flying-fish 
with  filmy,  rainbow  wings  rising  from  one 
wave  and  shimmering  through  the  sunlight  to 
127 


Crittenden 

the  foamy  crest  of  another — sometimes  hun 
dreds  of  yards  away.  Beautiful  clear  sunsets 
of  rose,  gold-green,  and  crimson,  with  one  big, 
pure,  radiant  star  ever  like  a  censer  over  them ; 
every  night  the  stars  more  deeply  and  thickly 
sown  and  growing  ever  softer  and  more  brill 
iant  as  the  boats  neared  the  tropics;  every  day 
dawn  rich  with  beauty  and  richer  for  the 
dewy  memories  of  the  dawns  that  were  left 
behind. 

Now  and  then  a  little  torpedo-boat  would 
cut  like  a  knife-blade  through  the  water  on 
messenger  service;  or  a  gunboat  would  drop 
lightly  down  from  the  hill  of  the  sea,  along 
the  top  of  which  it  patrolled  so  vigilantly;  and 
ever  on  the  horizon  hung  a  battle-ship  that 
looked  like  a  great  gray  floating  cathedral. 
But  nobody  was  looking  for  a  fight — nobody 
thought  the  Spaniard  would  fight — and  so 
these  were  only  symbols  of  war;  and  even  they 
seemed  merely  playing  the  game. 

It  was  as  Grafton  said.  Far  ahead  went 
the  flag-ship  with  the  huge  Commander-in- 
Chief  and  his  staff,  the  gorgeous  attaches,  and 
the  artists  and  correspondents,  with  valets,  or 
derlies,  stenographers,  and  secretaries.  Some 
where  far  to  the  rear,  one  ship  was  filled  with 
128 


Crittenden 

newspaper  men  from  stem  to  stern.  But  wily 
Grafton  was  \vith  Lawton  and  Chaffee,  the 
only  correspondent  aboard  their  transport.  On 
the  second  day,  as  he  sat  on  the  poop-deck,  a 
negro  boy  came  up  to  him,  grinning  uneasily : 

"  I  seed  you  back  in  ole  Iventuck,  suh." 

"  You  did?  Well,  I  don't  remember  see 
ing  you.  What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Captain  say  he  gwine  to  throw  me  over 
board." 

"  What  for?  " 

"  I  ain't  got  no  business  here,  suh." 

"  Then  what  are  you  here  for?  " 

"  Lookin'  fer  Ole  Cap'n,  suh." 

"  Ole  Cap'n  who?  "  said  Grafton,  mimick 
ing. 

"  Cap'n  Crittenden,  suh." 

"  Well,  if  you  are  his  servant,  I  suppose 
they  won't  throw  you  overboard.  What's 
your  name  ? " 

"  Bob,  suh— Bob  Crittenden." 

"  Crittenden,"  repeated  Grafton,  smiling. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  him;  I  should  say  so!  So 
he's  a  Captain?  " 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Bob,  not  quite  sure 
whether  he  was  lying  or  not. 

Grafton  spoke  to  an  officer,  and  was  allowed 
129 


Crittenden 

to  take  Bob  for  his  own  servant,  though  the 
officer  said  he  did  not  remember  any  captain 
of  that  name  in  the  — th.  To  the  news 
paper  man,  Bob  was  a  godsend ;  for  humor  was 
scarce  on  board,  and  "  jollying  "  Bob  was  a 
welcome  diversion.  He  learned  many  things 
of  Crittenden  and  the  Crittendens,  and  what 
great  people  they  had  always  been  and  still 
were;  but  at  a  certain  point  Bob  was  evasive 
or  dumb — and  the  correspondent  respected  the 
servant's  delicacy  about  family  affairs  arid 
went  no  farther  along  that  line — he  had  no 
curiosity,  and  was  questioning  idly  and  for 
fun,  but  treated  Bob  kindly  and,  in  return,  the 
fat  of  the  ship,  through  Bob's  keen  eye  and 
quick  hand,  was  his,  thereafter,  from  day  to 
day. 

Grafton  was  not  storing  up  much  material 
for  use;  but  he  would  have  been  much  sur 
prised  if  he  could  have  looked  straight  across 
to  the  deck  of  the  ship  running  parallel  to  his 
and  have  seen  the  dignified  young  statesman 
whom  he  had  heard  speak  at  the  recruiting 
camp  in  Kentucky;  who  made  him  think  of 
Henry  Clay;  whom  he  had  seen  whisking  a 
beautiful  girl  from  the  camp  in  the  smartest 
turn-out  he  had  seen  South — had  seen  him 
130 


Crittenden 

now  as  Private  Crittenden,  with  his  fast 
friend,  Abe  Long,  and  passing  in  his  company 
because  of  his  bearing  under  a  soubriquet 
donated  by  his  late  enemy,  Reynolds,  as  "  Old 
Hamlet  of  Kentuck."  And  Crittenden  would 
have  been  surprised  had  he  known  that  the  ac 
tive  darky  whom  he  saw  carrying  coffee  and 
shoes  to  a  certain  state-room  was  none  other 
than  Bob  waiting  on  Grafton.  And  that  the 
Rough  Rider  whom  he  saw  scribbling  on  a 
pad  in  the  rigging  of  the  Yucatan  was  none 
other  than  Basil  writing  one  of  his  bulletins 
home. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  believe  that  he  really 
was  going  to  war,  even  now,  when  the  long 
sail  was  near  an  end  and  the  ships  were  run 
ning  fearlessly  along  the  big,  grim  coast- 
mountains  of  Cuba,  with  bands  playing  and 
colors  to  the  breeze;  hard  to  realize  that  he 
was  not  to  land  in  peace  and  safety  and,  in 
peace  and  safety,  go  back  as  he  came;  that  a 
little  farther  down  those  gashed  mountains, 
showing  ever  clearer  through  the  mist,  were 
men  with  whom  the  quiet  officers  and  men 
around  him  would  soon  be  in  a  death-grapple. 
The  thought  stirred  him,  and  he  looked  around 
at  the  big,  strong  fellows — intelligent,  order- 
131 


Crittenden 

ly,  obedient,  good-natured,  and  patient;  pa 
tient,  restless,  and  sick  as  they  were  from  the 
dreadful  hencoop  life  they  had  led  for  so  many 
days— patient  beyond  words.  He  had  risen 
early  that  morning.  The  rose  light  over  the 
eastern  water  was  whitening,  and  all  over  the 
deck  his  comrades  lay  asleep,  their  faces  gray 
in  the  coming  dawn  and  their  attitudes  sug 
gesting  ghastly  premonitions — premonitions 
that  would  come  true  fast  enough  for  some  of 
the  poor  fellows — perhaps  for  him.  Stepping 
between  and  over  the  prostrate  bodies,  he  made 
his  way  forward  and  leaned  over  the  prow, 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  hair  blowing 
back  from  his  forehead. 

Already  his  face  had  suffered  a  change. 
For  more  than  three  long  weeks  he  had  been 
merely  a  plain  man  among  plain  men.  At 
once  when  he  became  Private  Crittenden,  No. 
63,  Company  C,  — th  United  States  Regular 
Cavalry,  at  Tampa,  he  was  shorn  of  his  former 
estate  as  completely  as  though  in  the  process 
he  had  been  wholly  merged  into  some  other 
man.  The  officers,  at  whose  table  he  had  once 
sat,  answered  his  salute  precisely  as  they  an 
swered  any  soldier's.  He  had  seen  Rivers  but 
seldom — but  once  only  on  the  old  footing,  and 
132 


Crittenden 

that  was  on  the  night  ho  went  on  board,  when 
Rivers  came  to  tell  him  good-by  and  to  bitterly 
bemoan  the  luck  that,  as  was  his  fear  from  the 
beginning,  had  put  him  among  the  ill-starred 
ones  chosen  to  stay  behind  at  Tampa  and 
take  care  of  the  horses;  as  hostlers,  he  said, 
with  deep  disgust,  adding  hungrily: 

"  I  wish  I  were  in  your  place." 

With  the  men,  Crittenden  was  popular,  for 
he  did  his  work  thoroughly,  asked  no  favors, 
shirked  no  duties.  There  \vere  several  officers' 
sons  among  them  working  for  commissions, 
and,  naturally,  he  drifted  to  them,  and  he 
found  them  all  good  fellows.  Of  Blackford, 
he  was  rather  wary,  after  Rivers's  short  history 
of  him,  but  as  he  was  friendly,  unselfish,  had 
a  high  sense  of  personal  honor,  and  a  peculiar 
reverence  for  women,  Crittenden  asked  no 
further  questions,  and  was  sorry,  when  he 
came  back  to  Tampa,  to  find  him  gone  with 
the  Rough  Riders.  "With  Reynolds,  he  was 
particularly  popular,  and  he  never  knew  that 
the  story  of  the  Tampa  fight  had  gone  to  all 
the  line  officers  of  the  regiment,  and  that 
nearly  every  one  of  them  knew  him  by  sight 
and  knew  his  history.  Only  once  from  an 
officer,  however,  and  steadily  always  from  the 
133 


Crittenden 

old  Sergeant,  could  he  feel  that  he  was  re 
garded  in  a  different  light  from  the  humblest 
soldier  in  the  ranks — which  is  just  what  he 
would  have  asked.  The  Colonel  had  cast  an 
envious  eye  on  Raincrow  at  Tampa,  and, 
straightway,  he  had  taken  the  liberty  of  get 
ting  the  Sergeant  to  take  the  horse  to  the 
Colonel's  tent  with  the  request  that  he  use  him 
throughout  the  campaign.  The  horse  came 
back  with  the  Colonel's  thanks;  but,  when 
the  order  came  that  the  cavalry  was  to  go  un 
mounted,  the  Colonel  sent  word  that  he  would 
take  the  horse  now,  as  the  soldier  could  not 
use  him.  So  Raincrow  was  aboard  the  ship, 
and  the  old  Colonel,  coming  down  to  look  at 
the  horse  one  day,  found  Crittenden  feed 
ing  him,  and  thanked  him  and  asked  him  how 
he  was  getting  along;  and,  while  there  was  a 
smile  about  his  humorous  mouth,  there  was 
a  kindly  look  in  his  blue  eye  that  pleased 
Crittenden  mightily.  As  for  the  old  Sergeant, 
he  could  never  forget  that  the  soldier  was  a 
Crittenden — one  of  his  revered  Crittendens. 
And,  while  he  was  particularly  stern  with 
him  in  the  presence  of  his  comrades,  for  fear 
that  he  might  be  betrayed  into  showing  par 
tiality — he  was  always  drifting  around  to  givo 


Crittenden 

him  a  word  of  advice  and  to  shake  his  head 
over  the  step  that  Crittenden  had  taken. 

That  step  had  done  him  good  in  body  and 
soul.  It  made  him  lean  and  tanned;  it  sharp 
ened  and  strengthened  his  profile;  it  cleared 
his  eye  and  settled  his  lips  even  more  firmly. 
Tobacco  and  liquor  were  scarce,  and  from  dis 
use  he  got  a  new  sensation  of  mental  clearness 
and  physical  cleanliness  that  was  comforting 
and  invigorating,  and  helped  bring  back  the 
freshness  of  his  boyhood. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  years,  his  days 
were  full  of  work  and,  asleep,  awake,  or  at 
work,  his  hours  were  clock-like  and  steadied 
him  into  machine-like  regularity.  It  was 
work  of  his  hands,  to  be  sure,  and  not  even 
high  work  of  that  kind,  but  still  it  was  work. 
And  the  measure  of  the  self-respect  that  this 
fact  alone  brought  him  was  worth  it  all.  Al 
ready,  his  mind  was  taking  character  from  his 
body.  He  was  distinctly  less  morbid  and  he 
found  himself  thinking  during  those  long 
days  of  the  sail  of  what  he  should  do  after  the 
war  was  over.  His  desire  to  get  killed  was 
gone,  and  it  was  slowly  being  forced  on  him 
that  he  had  been  priggish,  pompous,  self- 
absorbed,  hair-splitting,  lazy,  good-for-noth- 


Crittenden 

ing,  when  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  be  other 
than  what  he  meant  to  be  when  he  got  back. 
And  as  for  Judith,  he  felt  the  bitterness  of 
gall  for  himself  when  he  thought  of  her,  and 
he  never  allowed  himself  to  think  of  her  ex 
cept  to  absolve  her,  as  he  knew  she  would  not 
absolve  herself,  and  to  curse  himself  heartily 
and  bitterly.  He  understood  now.  It  was 
just  her  thought  of  his  faithfulness,  her  feel 
ing  of  responsibility  for  him — the  thought 
that  she  had  not  been  as  kind  to  him  as  she 
might  have  been  (and  she  had  always  been 
kinder  than  he  deserved) — all  this  had  loosed 
her  tears  and  her  self-control,  and  had  thrown 
her  into  a  mood  of  reckless  self-sacrifice.  And 
when  she  looked  up  into  his  face  that  night 
of  the  parting,  he  felt  her  looking  into  his 
soul  and  seeing  his  shame  that  he  had  lost  his 
love  because  he  had  lost  himself,  and  she  was 
quite  right  to  turn  from  him,  as  she  did,  with 
out  another  word.  Already,  however,  he 
was  healthy  enough  to  believe  that  he  was  not 
quite  so  hopeless  as  she  must  think  him — not 
as  hopeless  as  he  had  thought  himself.  Life, 
now,  with  even  a  soldier's  work,  was  far  from 
being  as  worthless  as  life  with  a  gentleman's 
idleness  had  been.  He  was  honest  enough  to 
136 


Crittenden 

take  no  credit  for  the  clean  change  in  his  life 
— no  other  life  was  possible ;  but  he  was  learn 
ing  the  practical  value  and  mental  comfort  of 
straight  living  as  he  had  never  learned  them 
before.  And  he  was  not  so  prone  to  meta 
physics  and  morbid  self-examination  as  he 
once  was,  and  he  shook  off  a  mood  of  that  kind 
when  it  came — impatiently — as  he  shook  it 
off  now.  He  was  a  soldier  now,  and  his  prov 
ince  was  action  and  no  more  thought  than  his 
superiors  allowed  him.  And,  standing  thus, 
at  sunrise,  on  the  plunging  bow  of  the  ship, 
with  his  eager,  sensitive  face  splitting  the 
swift  wind — he  might  have  stood  to  any 
thoughtful  American  who  knew  his  character 
and  his  history  as  a  national  hope  and  a  na 
tional  danger.  The  nation,  measured  by  its 
swift  leap  into  maturity,  its  striking  powrer  to 
keep  going  at  the  same  swift  pace,  was  about 
his  age.  South,  Xorth,  and  West  it  had  lived, 
or  was  living,  his  life.  It  had  his  faults  and 
his  virtues;  like  him,  it  was  high-spirited, 
high-minded,  alert,  active,  manly,  generous, 
and  with  it,  as  with  him,  the  bad  was  circum 
stantial,  trivial,  incipient;  the  good  was  bred 
in  the  Saxon  bone  and  lasting  as  rock — if  the 
surface  evil  were  only  checked  in  time  and 
137 


Crittenden 

held  down.  Like  him,  it  needed,  like  a  Titan, 
to  get  back,  now  and  then,  to  the  earth  to  re 
new  its  strength.  And  the  war  would  send 
the  nation  to  the  earth  as  it  would  send  him, 
if  he  but  lived  it  through. 

There  was  little  perceptible  change  in  the 
American  officer  and  soldier,  now  that  the 
work  was  about  actually  to  begin.  A  little 
more  soberness  was  apparent.  Everyone  was 
still  simple,  natural,  matter-of-fact.  But  that 
night,  doubtless,  each  man  dreamed  his  dream. 
The  West  Point  stripling  saw  in  his  empty 
shoulder-straps  a  single  bar,  as  the  man  above 
him  saw  two  tiny  bars  where  he  had  been  so 
proud  of  one.  The  Captain  led  a  battalion, 
the  Major  charged  at  the  head  of  a  thousand 
strong;  the  Colonel  plucked  a  star,  and  the 
Brigadier  heard  the  tramp  of  hosts  behind 
him.  And  who  knows  how  many  bold  spirits 
leaped  at  once  that  night  from  acorns  to  stars ; 
and  if  there  was  not  more  than  one  who  saw 
himself  the  war-god  of  the  anxious  nation  be 
hind — saw,  maybe,  even  the  doors  of  the 
White  House  swing  open  at  the  conquering 
sound  of  his  coming  feet.  And,  through  the 
dreams  of  all,  waved  aimlessly  the  mighty 
wand  of  the  blind  master — Fate — giving 
138 


Crittenden 

death  to  a  passion  for  glory  here;  disappoint 
ment  bitter  as  death  to  a  noble  ambition  there; 
and  there  giving  unsought  fame  where  was 
indifference  to  death;  and  then,  to  lend  sub 
stance  to  the  phantom  of  just  deserts,  giving 
a  mortal  here  and  there  the  exact  fulfilment 
of  his  dream. 

Two  toasts  were  drunk  that  night — one  by 
the  men  who  were  to  lead  the  Hough  Riders 
of  the  West, 

"  May  the  war  last  till  each  man  meets 
death,  wears  a  wound,  or  wins  himself  better 
spurs." 

And,  in  the  hold  of  the  same  ship,  another 
in  whiskey  from  a  tin  cup  between  two  com 
rades  : 

"  Bunkie,"  said  Blackford,  to  a  dare-devil 
like  himself,  "  welcome  to  the  Spanish  bullet 
that  knocks  for  entrance  here  " — tapping  his 
heart.  Basil  struck  the  cup  from  his  hand, 
and  Blackford  swore,  laughed,  and  put  his 
arm  around  the  boy. 


i39 


ALREADY  now,  the  first  little  fight  was  go 
ing  on,  and  Graf  ton,  the  last  newspaper  man 
ashore,  was  making  for  the  front — with  Bob 
close  at  his  heels.  It  was  hot,  very  hot,  but 
the  road  was  a  good,  hard  path  of  clean  sand, 
and  now  and  then  a  breeze  stirred,  or  a  light, 
cool  rain  twinkled  in  the  air.  On  each  side 
lay  marsh,  swamp,  pool,  and  tropical  jungle 
— and,  to  Grafton's  Northern  imagination, 
strange  diseases  lurked  like  monsters  every 
where.  Every  strange,  hot  odor  made  him  un 
easy  and,  at  times,  he  found  himself  turning 
his  head  and  holding  his  breath,  as  he  always 
did  when  he  passed  a  pest-house  in  his  child 
hood.  About  him  were  strange  plants,  strange 
flowers,  strange  trees,  the  music  of  strange 
birds,  with  nothing  to  see  that  was  familiar 
except  sky,  mountain,  running  water,  and 
sand;  nothing  home-like  to  hear  but  the  twit 
ter  of  swallows  and  the  whistle  of  quail. 

That  path  was  no  road  for  a  hard-drinking 
man  to  travel  and,  now  and  then,  Grafton 
140 


Crittenden 

shrank  back,  with  a  startled  laugh,  from  the 
hideous  things  crawling  across  the  road  and 
rustling  into  the  cactus — spiders  with  snail- 
houses  over  them;  lizards  with  green  bodies 
and  yellow  legs,  and  green  legs  and  yellow 
bodies;  hairy  tarantulas,  scorpions,  and  hid 
eous  mottled  land-crabs,  standing  three  inches 
from  the  sand,  and  watching  him  with  hideous 
little  eyes  as  they  shuffled  sidewise  into  the 
bushes.  Moreover,  he  was  following  the  trail 
of  an  army  by  the  uncheerful  signs  in  its  wake 
— the  debris  of  the  last  night's  camp — empty 
cans,  bits  of  hardtack,  crackers,  bad  odors, 
and,  by  and  by,  odds  and  ends  that  the  sol 
diers  discarded  as  the  sun  got  warm  and  their 
packs  heavy  —  drawers,  undershirts,  coats, 
blankets,  knapsacks,  an  occasional  gauntlet  or 
legging,  bits  of  fat  bacon,  canned  meats,  hard 
tack — and  a  swarm  of  buzzards  in  the  path, 
in  the  trees,  and  wheeling  in  the  air — and 
smiling  Cubans  picking  up  everything  they 
could  eat  or  wear. 

An  hour  later,  he  met  a  soldier,  who  told 
him  there  had  been  a  fight.  Still,  an  horn- 
later,  rumors  came  thick,  but  so  conflicting 
and  wild  that  Graf  ton  began  to  hope  there  had 
been  no  fight  at  all.  Proof  met  him,  then,  in 
141 


Crittenden 

the  road — a  white  man,  on  foot,  with  his  arm 
in  a  bloody  sling.  Then,  on  a  litter,  a  negro 
trooper  with  a  shattered  leg;  then  another 
with  a  bullet  through  his  throat;  and  another 
wounded  man,  and  another.  On  horseback 
rode  a  Sergeant  with  a  bandage  around  his 
brow — Grafton  could  see  him  smiling  broadly 
fifty  yards  ahead — and  the  furrow  of  a  Mauser 
bullet  across  his  temple,  and  just  under  his 
skin. 

"  Still  nutty,"  said  Grafton  to  himself. 

Farther  on  was  a  camp  of  insurgents — little, 
thin,  brown  fellows,  ragged,  dirty,  shoeless — 
each  with  a  sugar-loaf  straw  hat,  a  Remington 
rifle  of  the  pattern  of  1882,  or  a  brand  new 
Krag-Jorgensen  donated  by  Uncle  Sam,  and 
the  inevitable  and  ever  ready  machete  swing 
ing  in  a  case  of  embossed  leather  on  the  left 
hip.  Very  young  they  were,  and  very  old; 
and  wiry,  quick-eyed,  intelligent,  for  the  most 
part  and,  in  countenance,  vivacious  and 
rather  gentle.  There  was  a  little  creek  next, 
and,  climbing  the  bank  of  the  other  side, 
Grafton  stopped  short,  with  a  start,  in  the 
road.  To  the  right  and  on  a  sloping  bank, 
lay  eight  gray  shapes,  muffled  from  head  to 
foot,  and  Grafton  would  have  known  that  all 
142 


Crittenden 

of  them  were  in  their  last  sleep,  but  one,  who 
lay  with  his  left  knee  bent  and  upright,  his 
left  elbow  thrust  from  his  blanket,  and  his 
hand  on  his  heart.  He  slept  like  a  child. 

Beyond  was  the  camp  of  the  regulars  who 
had  taken  part  in  the  fight.  On  one  side  stood 
a  Colonel,  who  himself  had  aimed  a  Hotchkiss 
gun  in  the  little  battle — covered  with  grime 
and  sweat,  and  with  the  passion  of  battle  not 
quite  gone  from  his  eyes;  and  across  the  road 
soldiers  were  digging  one  long  grave.  Graf- 
ton  pushed  on  a  little  farther,  and  on  the  top 
of  the  ridge  and  on  the  grassy  sun-lit  knoll, 
was  the  camp  of  the  Riders,  just  beyond  the 
rifle-pits  from  which  they  had  driven  the 
Spaniards.  Under  a  tree  to  the  right  lay  an 
other  row  of  muffled  shapes,  and  at  once  Graf- 
ton  walked  with  the  Colonel  to  the  hospital,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The  path,  thickly 
shaded  and  dappled  with  sunshine,  ran  along 
the  ridge  through  the  battle-field,  and  it  was 
as  pretty,  peaceful,  and  romantic  as  a  lovers' 
walk  in  a  garden.  Here  and  there,  the  tall 
grass  along  the  path  was  pressed  flat  where  a 
wounded  man  had  lain.  In  one  place,  the 
grass  was  matted  and  dark  red;  nearby  was 
a  blood-stained  hat  marked  with  the  initials 
M3 


Crittenden 

"  E.  L."  Here  was  the  spot  where  the  first 
victim  of  the  fight  fell.  A  passing  soldier, 
who  reluctantly  gave  his  name  as  Blackford, 
bared  his  left  arm  and  showed  the  newspaper 
man  three  places  between  his  wrist  and  elbow 
where  the  skin  had  been  merely  blistered  by 
three  separate  bullets  as  he  lay  fighting  un 
seen  enemies.  Farther  on,  lay  a  dead  Span 
iard,  with  covered  face. 

"  There's  one,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a 
careless  gesture.  A  huge  buzzard  flapped  from 
the  tree  over  the  dead  man  as  they  passed 
beneath.  Beyond  was  the  open-air  hospital, 
where  were  two  more  rigid  human  figures,  and 
where  the  wounded  lay — white,  quiet,  un 
complaining. 

And  there  a  surgeon  told  him  how  the 
wounded  had  lain  there  during  the  fight 
singing: 

"  My  Country,  'tis  of  thee!  " 

And  Grafton  beat  his  hands  together,  while 
his  throat  was  full  and  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  To  think  what  he  had  missed — to  think 
what  he  had  missed! 

He  knew  that  national  interest  would 
centre  in  this  regiment  of  Rough  Riders;  for 
144 


Crittenden 

every  State  in  the  Union  had  a  son  in  its  ranks, 
and  the  sons  represented  every  social  element 
in  the  national  life.  Never  was  there  a  more 
representative  body  of  men,  nor  a  body  of 
more  varied  elements  standing  all  on  one  and 
the  same  basis  of  American  manhood.  He 
recalled  how,  at  Tampa,  he  had  stood  with  the 
Colonel  while  the  regiment  filed  past,  the 
Colonel,  meanwhile,  telling  him  about  the 
men — the  strong  men,  who  made  strong 
stories  for  Wister  and  strong  pictures  for 
Remington.  And  the  Colonel  had  pointed 
with  especial  pride  and  affection  to  two  boy 
troopers,  who  inarched  at  the  head  of  his  col 
umn — a  Puritan  from  Massachusetts  and  a 
Cavalier  through  Virginia  blood  from  Ken 
tucky;  one  the  son  of  a  Confederate  General, 
the  other  the  son  of  a  Union  General — both 
beardless  "  bunkies,"  brothers  in  arms,  and 
fast  becoming  brothers  at  heart — Robert 
Sumner  and  Basil  Crittenden.  The  Colonel 
waved  his  hand  toward  the  wild  Westerners 
who  followed  them. 

"  It's  odd  to  think  it — but  those  two  boys 
are  the  fathers  of  the  regiment." 

And  now  that  Graf  ton  looked  around  and 
thought  of  it  all  again — they  were.  The 
145 


Crittenden 

fathers  of  the  regiment  had  planted  Plymouth 
and  Jamestown;  had  wrenched  life  and 
liberty  and  civilization  from  the  granite  of 
New  England,  the  fastnesses  of  the  Cumber 
land,  and  the  wildernesses  of  the  rich  valleys 
beyond;  while  the  sires  of  these  very  "West 
erners  had  gone  on  with  the  same  trinity 
through  the  barren  wastes  of  plains.  And, 
now,  having  conquered  the  New  World,  Pur 
itan  and  Cavalier,  and  the  children  of  both 
were  come  together  again  on  the  same  old  mis 
sion  of  freedom,  but  this  time  the  freedom  of 
others;  carrying  the  fruits  of  their  own  strug 
gle  back  to  the  old  land  from  which  they  came, 
with  the  sword  in  one  hand,  if  there  was  need, 
but  with  the  torch  of  liberty  in  the  other — 
held  high,  and,  as  God's  finger  pointed,  light 
ing  the  way. 

To  think  what  he  had  missed ! 

As  Grafton  walked  slowly  back,  an  officer 
was  calling  the  roll  of  his  company  under  the 
quiet,  sunny  hill,  and  he  stopped  to  listen. 
Now  and  then  there  was  no  answer,  and  he 
went  on — thrilled  and  saddened.  The  play 
was  ended — this  was  war. 

Outside  the  camp,  the  road  was  full  of 
half-angry,  bitterly  disappointed  infantry — 
146 


Crittenden 

Chaffee's  men.  When  he  reached  the  camp 
of  the  cavalry  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  again,  a 
soldier  called  his  name  as  he  passed — a  grimy 
soldier — and  Grafton  stopped  in  his  tracks. 

"Well,  by  God!" 

It  was  Crittenden,  who  smiled  when  he  saw 
Grafton's  bewildered  face.  Then  the  Ken- 
tuckian,  too,  stared  in  utter  amazement  at  a 
black  face  grinning  over  Grafton's  shoulder. 

"  Bob!  "  he  said,  sharply. 

"  Yessuh,"  said  Bob  humbly. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"  lsTothin',  Olc  Cap'n— jes  doin'  nothin'," 
said  Bob,  with  the  naivete  of  a  child.  "  Jes 
lookin'  for  you." 

"  Is  that  your  negro?  "  A  sarcastic  Lieu 
tenant  was  asking  the  question. 

"  He's  my  servant,  sir." 

"  Well,  we  don't  allow  soldiers  to  take  their 
valets  to  the  field." 

"  My  servant  at  home,  sir,  I  meant.  He 
came  of  his  own  accord." 

"  Go  find  Basil,"  Crittenden  said  to  Bob, 
"  and  if  you  can't  find  him,"  he  added  in  a 
lower  tone,  "  and  want  anything,  come  back 
here  to  me." 

"  Yessuh,"  said  Bob,  loath  to  go,  but,  see- 


Crittenden 

ing  the  Lieutenant  scowling,  lie  moved  on 
down  the  road. 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  Captain,"  said 
Grafton.  Crittenden  laughed. 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  Forward,"  shouted  the  Lieutenant, 
"march!" 

Grafton  looked  Crittenden  over. 

"  "Well,  I  swear,"  he  said  heartily,  and,  as 
Crittenden  moved  forward,  Grafton  stood 
looking  after  him.  "  A  regular — I  do  be 
damned!  " 

That  night  Basil  wrote  home.  He  had 
not  fired  his  musket  a  single  time.  He  saw 
nothing  to  shoot  at,  and  he  saw  no  use  shoot 
ing  until  he  did  have  something  to  shoot  at. 
It  was  terrible  to  see  men  dead  and  wounded, 
but  the  fight  itself  was  stupid — blundering 
through  a  jungle,  bullets  zipping  about,  and 
the  Spaniards  too  far  away  and  invisible.  He 
wanted  to  be  closer. 

"  General  Carter  has  sent  for  me  to  take 
my  place  on  his  staff.  I  don't  want  to  go,  but 
the  Colonel  says  I  ought.  I  don't  believe  I 
would,  if  the  General  hadn't  been  father's 
friend  and  if  my  "  bunkie  "  weren't  wounded. 
He's  all  right,  but  he'll  have  to  go  back.  I'd 
148 


Crittenden 

like  to  have  his  wound,  but  I'd  hate  to  have  to 
go  back.  The  Colonel  says  he's  sorry  to  lose 
me.  He  meant  to  make  me  a  corporal,  he 
says.  I  don't  know  what  for — but  Hooray! 

"  Brother  was  not  in  the  fight,  I  suppose. 
Don't  worry  about  me — please  don't  worry. 

"  P.  S. — I  have  often  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  to  be  on  the  eve  of  a  battle. 
It's  no  different  from  anything  else." 

Abe  Long  and  Crittenden  were  bunkies 
now.  Abe's  comrade,  the  boy  Sanders,  had 
been  wounded  and  sent  to  the  rear.  Rey 
nolds,  too,  was  shot  through  the  shoulder, 
and,  despite  his  protests,  was  ordered  back  to 
the  coast. 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  on  hand  for  the  next  scrap," 
he  said. 

Abe  and  Crittenden  had  been  side  by  side 
in  the  fight.  It  was  no  surprise  to  Crittenden 
that  any  man  was  brave.  By  his  code,  a  man 
would  be  better  dead  than  alive  a  coward.  He 
believed  cowardice  exceptional  and  the  brave 
man  the  rule,  but  lie  was  not  prepared  for 
Abe's  coolness  and  his  humor.  Never  did  the 
Westerner's  voice  change,  and  never  did  the 
grim  half-smile  leave  his  eyes  or  his  mouth. 
Once  during  the  fight  he  took  off  his  hat, 
149 


Crittenden 

"  How's  ray  hair  parted  ? "  he  asked, 
quietly. 

A  Mauser  bullet  had  mowed  a  path  through 
Abe's  thick,  upright  hair,  scraping  the  skin 
for  three  inches,  and  leaving  a  trail  of  tiny, 
red  drops.  Crittenden  turned  to  look  and 
laugh,  and  a  bullet  cut  through  the  open  flap 
of  his  shirt,  just  over  his  heart.  He  pointed 
to  it. 

"  See  the  good  turn  you  did  me." 

While  the  two  were  cooking  supper,  the 
old  Sergeant  came  up. 

"  If  you  don't  obey  orders  next  time,"  he 
said  to  Crittenden,  sternly,  for  Abe  was  pres 
ent,  "  I'll  report  you  to  the  Captain."  Crit 
tenden  had  declined  to  take  shelter  during  the 
fight — it  was  a  racial  inheritance  that  both  the 
Xorth  and  the  South  learned  to  correct  in  the 
old  war. 

"  That's  right,  Governor,"  said  Abe. 

"  The  Colonel  himself  wanted  to  know 
what  damn  fool  that  was  standing  out  in  the 
road.  He  meant  you." 

"  All  right,  Sergeant,"  Crittenden  said. 

When  he  came  in  from  guard  duty,  late 
that  night,  he  learned  that  Basil  was  safe. 
He  lay  down  with  a  grateful  heart,  and  his 
150 


Crittenden 

thoughts,  like  the  thoughts  of  every  man  in 
that  tropical  forest,  took  flight  for  home.  Life 
was  getting  very  simple  now  for  him — death, 
too,  and  duty.  Already  he  was  beginning  to 
wonder  at  his  old  self  and,  with  a  shock,  it 
came  to  him  that  there  were  but  three  women 
in  the  world  to  him — Phyllis  and  his  mother 
— and  Judith.  He  thought  of  the  night  of 
the  parting,  and  it  flashed  for  the  first  time 
upon  him  that  Judith  might  have  taken  the 
shame  that  he  felt  reddening  his  face  as  shame 
for  her,  and  not  for  himself:  and  a  pain  shot 
through  him  so  keen  that  he  groaned  aloud. 
Above  him  was  a  clear  sky,  a  quarter  moon, 
an  enveloping  mist  of  stars,  and  the  very  peace 
of  heaven.  But  there  was  little  sleep — and 
that  battle-haunted — for  any:  and  for  him 
none  at  all. 

And  none  at  all  during  that  night  of  agony 
for  Judith,  nor  Phyllis,  nor  the  mother  at 
Canewood,  though  there  was  a  reaction  of  joy, 
next  morning,  when  the  name  of  neither  Crit- 
tendeii  was  among  the  wounded  or  the  dead. 

Xothing  had  been  heard,  so  far,  of  the  elder 
brother  but,  as  they  sat  in  the  porch,  a  negro 
boy  brought  the  town  paper,  and  Mrs.  Crit- 
151 


Crittenden 

tenden  found  a  paragraph  about  a  soldier 
springing  into  the  sea  in  full  uniform  at  Si- 
boney  to  rescue  a  drowning  comrade,  who  had 
fallen  into  the  surf  while  trying  to  land,  and 
had  been  sunk  to  the  bottom  by  his  arms  and 
ammunition.  And  the  rescuer's  name  was 
Crittenden.  The  writer  went  on  to  tell  who 
he  was,  and  how  he  had  given  up  his  commis 
sion  to  a  younger  brother  and  had  gone  as  a 
private  in  the  regular  army — how  he  had 
been  offered  another  after  he  reached  Cuba, 
and  had  declined  that,  too — having  entered 
with  his  comrades,  he  would  stay  with  them 
to  the  end.  Whereat  the  mother's  face  burned 
with  a  proud  fire,  as  did  Phyllis's,  when 
Mrs.  Crittenden  read  on  about  this  Critten- 
den's  young  brother,  wrho,  while  waiting  for 
his  commission,  had  gone  as  a  Hough  Rider, 
and  who,  after  gallant  conduct  during  the 
first  fight,  had  taken  his  place  on  General 
Carter's  staff.  Phyllis  clapped  her  hands, 
softly,  with  a  long  sigh  of  pride — and  relief. 
"  I  can  eat  strawberries,  now."  And  she 
blushed  again.  Phyllis  had  been  living  on 
bacon  and  corn-bread,  she  confessed  shame 
facedly,  because  Trooper  Basil  was  living  on 
bacon  and  hardtack — little  dreaming  that  the 
152 


Crittenden 

food  she  forced  upon  herself  in  this  sacrificial 
way  was  being  swallowed  by  that  hearty 
youngster  with  a  relish  that,  he  would  not  have 
known  at  home  for  fried  chicken  and  hot  rolls. 

"  Yes,"  laughed  Mrs.  Crittenden.  "  You 
can  eat  strawberries  now.  You  can  balance 
them  against  his  cocoanuts." 

Phyllis  picked  up  the  paper  then,  with  a 
cry  of  surprise— the  name  signed  to  the 
article  was  Grafton,  whom  she  had  seen  at  the 
recruiting  camp.  And  then  she  read  the  last 
paragraph  that  the  mother  had  not  read  aloud, 
and  she  turned  sharply  away  and  stooped 
to  a  pink-bed,  as  though  she  would  pick  one, 
and  the  mother  saw  her  shoulders  shaking 
with  silent  sobs,  and  she  took  the  child  in  her 
arms. 

There  was  to  be  a  decisive  fight  in  a  few 
days — the  attack  on  Santiago — that  was  what 
Phyllis  had  read.  The  Spaniard  had  a  good 
muster-roll  of  regulars  and  aid  from  Cervera's 
fleet;  was  well  armed,  and  had  plenty  of  time 
to  intrench  and  otherwise  prepare  himself  for 
a  bloody  fight  in  the  last  ditch. 

So  that,  each  day  there  was  a  relief  to  the 
night  agony,  which,  every  morning,  began 
straightway  with  the  thought  that  the  fight 
153 


Crittenden 

might  be  going  on  at  that  very  hour.  Not 
once  did  Judith  come  near.  She  had  been  ill, 
to  be  sure,  but  one  day  Mrs.  Crittenden  met 
her  on  the  way  to  town  and  stopped  her  in  the 
road ;  but  the  girl  had  spoken  so  strangely  that 
the  mother  drove  on,  at  loss  to  understand  and 
much  hurt.  Next  day  she  learned  that  Ju 
dith,  .  despite  her  ill  health  and  her  father's 
protests,  had  gone  to  nurse  the  sick  and  the 
wounded — what  Phyllis  plead  in  vain  to  do. 
The  following  day  a  letter  came  from  Mrs. 
Crittenden's  elder  son.  He  was  well,  and  the 
mother  must  not  wrorry  about  either  him  or 
Basil.  lie  did  not  think  there  would  be  much 
fighting  and,  anyhow,  the  great  risk  was  from 
disease,  and  he  feared  very  little  from  that. 
Basil  would  be  much  safer  as  an  aid  on  a  Gen 
eral's  staff.  He  would  get  plenty  to  eat, 
would  be  less  exposed  to  weather,  have  no  long 
marches — as  he  would  be  mounted — and  no 
guard  duty  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night. 
And,  moreover,  he  would  probably  be  less  con 
stantly  exposed  to  bullets.  So  she  must  not 
worry  about  him.  Not  one  word  wras  there 
about  Judith — not  even  to  ask  how  she  was, 
which  was  strange.  He  had  said  nothing 
about  the  girl  when  he  told  his  mother  good- 
i54 


Crittenden 

by;  and  when  she  broached  the  subject,  he 
answered  sadly : 

"  Don't,  mother;  I  can't  say  a  word — not  a 
word." 

In  his  letter  he  had  outlined  Basil's  ad 
vantages,  not  one  of  which  was  his — and  sit 
ting  on  the  porch  of  the  old  homestead  at  sun 
set  of  the  last  rich  day  in  June,  the  mother 
was  following  her  eldest  born  through  the 
transport  life,  the  fiery  marches,  the  night 
watches  on  lonely  outposts,  the  hard  food,  the 
drenching  rains,  steaming  heat,  laden  with  the 
breath  of  terrible  disease,  not  realizing  how  lit 
tle  he  minded  it  all  and  how  much  good  it  was 
doing  him.  She  did  know,  however,  that 
it  had  been  but  play  thus  far  to  what  must 
follow.  Perhaps,  even  now,  she  thought,  the 
deadly  work  was  beginning,  while  she  sat  in 
the  shrine  of  peace — even  now. 

And  it  was.  Almost  at  that  hour  the  troops 
were  breaking  camp  and  moving  forward 
along  the  one  narrow  jungle-road — choked 
with  wagon,  pack-mule,  and  soldier — through 
a  haze  of  dust,  and,  turning  to  the  right  at  the 
first  crossing  beyond  corps  head-quarters — 
under  Chaifee — for  Caney.  Now  and  then  a 
piece  of  artillery,  with  its  flashes  of  crimson, 


Crittenden 

would  pass  through  the  advancing  columns 
amid  the  waving  of  hats  and  a  great  cheering 
to  take  position  against  the  stone  fort  at  Caney 
or  at  El  Poso,  to  be  trained  on  the  block-house 
at  San  Juan.  And  through  the  sunset  and 
the  dusk  the  columns  marched,  and,  after 
night  fell,  the  dark,  silent  masses  of  slouch 
hats,  shoulders,  and  gun-muzzles  kept  on 
marching  past  the  smoke  and  flare  of  the  de 
serted  camp-fires  that  lighted  thicket  and 
grassy  plot  along  the  trail.  And  after  the 
flames  had  died  down  to  cinders — in  the  same 
black  terrible  silence,  the  hosts  were  march 
ing  still. 

That  night  a  last  good-by  to  all  womankind, 
but  wife,  mother,  sister,  sweetheart.  The 
world  was  to  be  a  man's  world  next  day,  and 
the  man  a  coarse,  dirty,  sweaty,  swearing, 
good-natured,  grimly  humorous,  cruel,  kindly 
soldier,  feverish  for  a  fight  and  as  primitive  in 
passion  as  a  cave-dweller  fighting  his  kind  for 
food.  The  great  little  fight  was  at  hand. 


156 


XI 

BEFOKE  dawn  again — everything  in  war  be 
gins  at  dawn — and  the  thickets  around  a  cer 
tain  little  gray  stone  fort  alive  with  slouch 
hat,  blue  blouse,  and  Krag-Jorgensen,  slipping 
through  the  brush,  building  no  fires,  and  talk 
ing  in  low  tones  for  fear  the  timorous  enemy 
would  see,  or  hear,  and  run  before  the  Ameri 
can  sharpshooter  could  get  a  chance  to  try  his 
marksmanship;  wondering,  eight  hours  later, 
if  the  timorous  enemy  were  ever  going  to  run. 
Eastward  and  on  a  high  knoll  stripped  of 
bushes,  four  3.2  guns  unlimbered  and  thrown 
into  position  against  that  fort  and  a  certain  lit 
tle  red-roofed  town  to  the  left  of  it.  This 
was  Caney. 

Eastward  still,  three  miles  across  an  uneven 
expanse  of  green,  jungle  and  jungle-road  alive 
with  men,  bivouacing  fearlessly  around  and 
under  four  more  3.2  guns  planted  on  another 
high-stripped  knoU — El  Poso — and  trained  on 
a  little  pagoda-like  block-house,  which  sat  like 
a  Christmas  toy  on  top  of  a  green  little,  steep 


Crittenden 

little  hill  from  the  base  of  which  curved  an 
orchard-like  valley  back  to  sweeping  curve  of 
the  jungle.  This  was  San  Juan. 

Mature  loves  sudden  effects  in  the  trop 
ics.  While  Chaffee  fretted  in  valley-shadows 
around  Caney  and  Lawton  strode  like  a  yellow 
lion  past  the  guns  on  the  hill  and,  eastward, 
gunner  on  the  other  hill  at  El  Poso  and  soldier 
in  the  jungle  below  listened  westward,  a  red 
light  ran  like  a  flame  over  the  east,  the  tops  of 
the  mountains  shot  suddenly  upward  and  it 
was  day — flashing  day,  with  dripping  dew  and 
birds  singing  and  a  freshness  of  light  and  air 
that  gave  way  suddenly  when  the  sun  quickly 
pushed  an  arc  of  fire  over  the  green  shoulder 
of  a  hill  and  smote  the  soldiers  over  and 
under  the  low  trees  like  rays  from  an  open 
furnace. 

It  smote  Reynolds  as  he  sat  by  the  creek 
under  the  guns  before  San  Juan,  idly  watch 
ing  water  bubble  into  three  canteens,  and  it 
opened  his  lips  for  an  oath  that  he  was  too  lazy 
to  speak;  it  smote  Abe  Long  cooking  coffee  on 
the  bank  some  ten  yards  away,  and  made  him 
raise  from  the  fire  and  draw  first  one  long  fore 
arm  and  then  the  other  across  his  heat-wrin 
kled  brow;  but,  unheeded,  it  smote  Crittenden 
158 


Crittenden 

— who  stood  near,  leaning  against  a  palm- 
tree — full  in  his  uplifted  face.  Perhaps  that 
was  the  last  sunrise  on  earth  for  him.  He 
was  watching  it  in  Cuba,  but  his  spirit  was 
hovering  around  home.  He  could  feel  the  air 
from  the  woods  in  front  of  Cane  wood;  could 
hear  the  darkies  going  to  work  and  Aunt 
Keziah  singing  in  the  kitchen.  He  could  see 
his  mother's  shutter  open,  could  see  her  a 
moment  later,  smiling  at  him  from  her  door. 
And  Judith — where  was  she,  and  what  was 
she  doing?  Could  she  be  thinking  of  him? 
The  sound  of  his  own  name  coming  down 
through  the  hot  air  made  him  start,  and,  look 
ing  up  toward  the  Rough  Riders,  who  were 
gathered  about  a  little  stuccoed  farm-house 
just  behind  the  guns  on  the  hill,  he  saw  Black- 
ford  waving  at  him.  At  the  same  moment 
hoofs  beat  the  dirt-road  behind  him — familiar 
hoof-beats — and  he  turned  to  see  Basil  and 
Raincrow — for  Crittenden's  Colonel  was  sick 
with  fever  and  Basil  had  Raincrow  now— 
on  their  way  with  a  message  to  Chaffee  at 
Caney.  Crittenden  saluted  gravely,  as  did 
Basil,  though  the  boy  turned  in  his  saddle, 
and  with  an  affectionate  smile  waved  back  at 
him. 

1 59 


Crittenden 

Crittenden's  lips  moved: 
"  God  bless  him." 


"Fire!" 

Over  on  the  hill,  before  Caney,  a  man  with 
a  lanyard  gave  a  quick  jerk.  There  was  a  cap 
explosion  at  the  butt  of  the  gun  and  a  bulg 
ing  white  cloud  from  the  muzzle;  the  trail 
bounced  from  its  shallow  trench,  the  wheels 
whirled  back  twice  on  the  rebound,  and  the 
shell  was  hissing  through  the  air  as  iron  hisses 
when  a  blacksmith  thrusts  it  red-hot  into  cold 
water.  Basil  could  hear  that  awful  hiss  so 
plainly  that  he  seemed  to  be  following  the 
shell  with  his  naked  eye;  he  could  hear  it  above 
the  reverberating  roar  of  the  gun  up  and  down 
the  coast-mountain;  hear  it  until,  six  seconds 
later,  a  puff  of  smoke  answered  beyond  the 
Spanish  column  where  the  shell  burst.  Then 
in  eight  seconds — for  the  shell  travelled  that 
much  faster  than  sound — the  muffled  report 
of  its  bursting  struck  his  ears,  and  all  that  was 
left  of  the  first  shot  that  started  the  great  little 
fight  was  the  thick,  sunlit  smoke  sweeping; 
away  from  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  and  the  little 
mist-cloud  of  the  shell  rising  slowly  upward 
1 60 


Crittenden 

beyond  the  stone  fort,  which  seemed  not  to 
know  any  harm  was  possible  or  near. 


Again  Crittenden,  leaning  against  the 
palm,  heard  his  name  called.  Again  it  was 
Blackford  who  was  opening  his  mouth  to 
shout  some  message  when — Ah!  The  shout 
died  on  Blackford's  lips,  and  every  man  on  the 
hill  and  in  the  woods,  at  that  instant,  stayed 
his  foot  and  his  hand — even  a  man  standing 
with  a  gray  horse  against  the  blue  wall — he, 
too,  stopped  to  listen.  It  really  sounded  too 
dull  and  muffled  for  a  shell;  but,  a  few 
seconds  later,  there  was  a  roar  against  the  big 
walls  of  living  green  behind  Caney. 

The  first  shot! 

"Ready!" 

Even  with  the  cry  at  El  Poso  came  another 
sullen,  low  boom  and  another  aggressive  roar 
from  Caney:  then  a  great  crackling  in  the 
air,  as  though  thousands  of  school-boys  were 
letting  off  fire-crackers,  pack  after  pack. 

"Fire!" 

Every  ear  heard,  every  eye  saw  the  sudden 
white  mist  at  a  gun-muzzle  and  followed  that 
first  shell  screaming  toward  the  little  Christ- 
161 


Crittenden 

mas  toy  sitting  in  the  sun  on  that  distant  little 
hill.  And  yet  it  was  nothing.  Another  and 
yet  another  mass  of  shrapnel  went  screaming, 
and  still  there  was  no  response,  no  sign.  It 
was  nothing — nothing  at  all.  Was  the  Span 
iard  asleep? 

Crittenden  could  see  attache,  correspondent, 
aid,  staff-officer,  non-combatant,  sight-seer 
crowding  close  about  the  guns — so  close  that 
the  gunners  could  hardly  work.  He  could 
almost  hear  them  saying,  one  to  another: 

"  Why,  is  this  war — really  war?  Why, 
this  isn't  so  bad." 

Twanged  just  then  a  bow-string  in  the  di 
rection  of  San  Juan  hill,  and  the  twang  seemed 
to  be  getting  louder  and  to  be  coming  toward 
the  little  blue  farm-house.  No  cannon  was  in 
sight;  there  was  no  smoke  visible,  and  many, 
with  an  upward  look,  wondered  what  the  queer 
sound  could  be.  Suddenly  there  was  a  screech 
ing,  crackling  answer  in  the  air;  the  atmos 
phere  was  rent  apart  as  by  a  lightning  stroke 
directly  overhead.  The  man  and  the  horse  by 
the  blue  wall  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  earth. 
A  Rough  Rider  paled  and  limped  down  the 
hill  and  Blackford  shook  his  hand— a  piece 
of  shrapnel  had  fallen  harmlessly  on  his  wrist. 
162 


Crittenden 

On  the  hill— Crittenden  laughed  as  he  looked 
— on  the  hill,  nobody  ran — everybody  tum 
bled.  Besides  the  men  at  the  guns,  only  two 
others  were  left — civilians. 

"  You're  a  fool,"  said  one. 

"  You're  another." 

"  "What'd  you  stay  here  for?  " 

"  Because  you  did.  What'd  you  stay  for?  " 

"  Because  you  did." 

Then  they  went  down  together — rapidly — 
and  just  in  time.  Another  shell  shrieked. 
Two  artillerymen  and  two  sergeants  dropped 
dead  at  their  guns,  and  a  corporal  fell,  mortal 
ly  wounded.  A  third  burst  in  a  group  of 
Cubans.  Several  of  them  flew  out,  killed  or 
wounded,  into  the  air;  the  rest  ran  shrieking 
for  the  woods.  Below,  those  woods  began  to 
move.  Under  those  shells  started  the  impa 
tient  soldiers  down  that  narrow  lane  through 
the  jungle,  and  with  Reynolds  and  Abe  Long 
on  the  "  point "  was  Crittenden,  his  Krag- 
Jorgensen  across  his  breast — thrilled,  for  all 
the  world,  as  though  he  were  on  a  hunt  for 
big  game. 

And  all  the  time  the  sound  of  ripping  cloth 
was  rolling  over  from  Caney,  the  far-away 
163 


Crittenden 

rumble  of  wagons  over  cobble-stones,  or  soft 
ened  stage  hail  and  stage  thunder  around 
the  block-house,  stone  fort,  and  town.  At 
first  it  was  a  desultory  fire,  like  the  popping  of 
a  bunch  of  fire-crackers  that  have  to  be  relight 
ed  several  times,  and  Basil  and  Grafton,  gal 
loping  toward  it,  could  hear  the  hiss  of  bullets 
that  far  away.  But,  now  and  then,  the  fire 
was  as  steady  as  a  Gatling-gun.  Behind  them, 
the  artillery  had  turned  on  the  stone  fort,  and 
Grafton  saw  one  shot  tear  a  hole  through  the 
wall,  then  another,  and  another.  He  could  see 
Spaniards  darting  from  the  fort  and  taking 
refuge  in  the  encircling  stone-cut  trenches; 
and  then  nothing  else — for  their  powder  was 
smokeless — except  the  straw  hats  of  the  little 
devils  in  blue,  who  blazed  away  from  their 
trenches  around  the  fort  and  minded  the  shells 
bursting  over  and  around  them  as  little  as 
though  they  had  been  bursting  snowballs.  If 
the  boy  ahead  noted  anything,  Grafton  could 
not  tell.  Basil  turned  his  head  neither  to 
right  nor  left,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  muddy 
hill,  the  black  horse  that  he  rode,  without 
touch  of  spur,  seemed  suddenly  to  leave  the 
earth  and  pass  on  out  of  sight  with  the  swift 
silence  of  a  shadow.  At  the  foot  of  a  hill 
164 


Crittenden 

walked  the  first  wounded  man — a  Colonel 
limping  between  two  soldiers.  The  Colonel 
looked  up  smiling — he  had  a  terrible  wound 
in  the  groin. 

"  Well,"  he  called  cheerily,  "  I'm  the  first 
victim." 

Grafton  wondered.  Was  it  possible  that 
men  were  going  to  behave  on  a  battle-field  just 
as  they  did  anywhere  else — just  as  naturally- 
taking  wounds  and  death  and  horror  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course  ?  Beyond  were  more  wounded — 
the  wounded  who  were  able  to  help  themselves. 
Soon  he  saw  them  lying  by  the  roadside,  here 
and  there  a  dead  one;  by  and  by,  he  struck  a 
battalion  marching  to  storm  a  block-house. 
He  got  down,  hitched  his  horse  a  few  yards 
from  the  road  and  joined  it.  He  was  wonder 
ing  how  it  would  feel  to  be  under  fire,  when 
just  as  they  were  crossing  another  road,  with 
a  whir  and  whistle  and  buzz,  a  cloud  of  swift 
insects  buzzed  over  his  head.  Unconsciously 
imitating  the  soldiers  near  him,  he  bent  low 
and  walked  rapidly.  Eight  and  left  of  him 
sounded  two  or  three  low,  horrible  crunch 
ing  noises,  and  right  and  left  of  him  two  or 
three  blue  shapes  sank  limply  down  on  their 
faces.  A  sudden  sickness  seized  him,  nauseat- 
165 


Crittenden 

ing  him  like  a  fetid  odor — the  crunching 
noise  was  the  sound  of  a  bullet  crashing  into 
a  living  human  skull  as  the  men  bent  forward. 
One  man,  he  remembered  afterward,  dropped 
with  the  quick  grunt  of  an  animal — he  was 
killed  outright;  another  gave  a  gasping  cry, 
"  Oh,  God  "  — there  was  a  moment  of  suf 
fering  consciousness  for  him;  a  third  hopped 
aside  into  the  bushes — cursing  angrily.  Still 
another,  as  he  passed,  looked  up  from  the-earth 
at  him  with  a  curious  smile,  as  though  he  were 
half  ashamed  of  something. 

"  I've  got  it,  partner,"  he  said,  "  I  reckon 
I've  got  it,  sure."  And  Grafton  saw  a  drop 
of  blood  and  the  tiny  mouth  of  a  wound  in  his 
gullet,  where  the  flaps  of  his  collar  fell  apart. 
He  couldn't  realize  how  he  felt — he  was  not 
interested  any  longer  in  how  he  felt.  The 
instinct  of  life  was  at  work,  and  the  instinct 
of  self-defence.  When  the  others  dropped,  he 
dropped  gladly;  when  they  rose,  he  rose  auto 
matically.  A  piece  of  brush,  a  bush,  the  low 
branch  of  a  tree,  a  weed  seemed  to  him  pro 
tection,  and  he  saw  others  possessed  with  the 
same  absurd  idea.  Once  the  unworthy 
thought  crossed  his  mind,  when  he  was  lying 
behind  a  squad  of  soldiers  and  a  little  lower 
166 


Crittenden 

than  they,  that  his  chance  was  at  least  better 
than  theirs.  And  once,  and  only  once — with 
a  bitter  sting  of  shame — he  caught  himself 
dropping  back  a  little,  so  that  the  same  squad 
should  be  between  him  and  the  enemy:  and 
forthwith  he  stepped  out  into  the  road,  abreast 
with  the  foremost,  cursing  himself  for  a  cow 
ard,  and  thereafter  took  a  savage  delight  in 
reckless  exposure  whenever  it  was  possible. 
And  he  soon  saw  that  his  position  was  a  queer 
one,  and  an  unenviable  one,  as  far  as  a  cool 
test  of  nerve  was  the  point  at  issue.  The  offi 
cers,  he  saw,  had  their  men  to  look  after — 
orders  to  obey — their  minds  were  occupied. 
The  soldiers  were  busy  getting  a  shot  at  the 
enemy — their  minds,  too,  were  occupied.  It 
was  his  peculiar  province  to  stand  up  and  be 
shot  at  without  the  satisfaction  of  shooting 
back  —  studying  his  sensations,  meanwhile, 
which  were  not  particularly  pleasant,  and 
studying  the  grewsome  horrors  about  him. 
And  it  struck  him,  too,  that  his  was  a  ghastly 
business,  and  an  unjustifiable,  and  that  if  it 
pleased  God  to  sec  him  through  he  would 
never  go  to  another  war  except  as  a  soldier. 
One  consideration  interested  him  and  was  sat 
isfactory.  Xobody  was  shooting  at  him — no- 
167 


Crittenden 

body  was  shooting  at  anybody  in  particular. 
If  he  were  killed,  or  when  anybody  was  killed, 
it  was  merely  accident,  and  it  was  thus  pleas 
ant  to  reflect  that  he  was  in  as  much  danger 
as  anybody. 

The  firing  was  pretty  hot  now,  and  the 
wounded  were  too  many  to  be  handled.  A 
hospital  man  called  out  sharply: 

"  Give  a  hand  here."  Grafton  gave  a  hand 
to  help  a  poor  fellow  back  to  the  field  hospital, 
in  a  little  hollow,  and  when  he  reached  the 
road  again  that  black  horse  and  his  boy  rider 
were  coming  back  like  shadows,  through  a 
rain  of  bullets,  along  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
Once  the  horse  plunged  sidewise  and  shook  his 
head  angrily — a  Mauser  had  stung  him  in  the 
neck — but  the  lad,  pale  and  his  eyes  like  stars, 
lifted  him  in  a  flying  leap  over  a  barbed-wire 
fence  and  swung  him  into  the  road  again. 

"Damn!"  said  Grafton,  simply. 

Then  rose  a  loud  cheer  from  the  battery  on 
the  hill,  and,  looking  west,  he  saw  the  war- 
balloon  hung  high  above  the  trees  and  moving 
toward  Santiago.  The  advance  had  begun 
over  there;  there  was  the  main  attack — the 
big  battle.  It  was  interesting  and  horrible 
enough  where  he  was,  but  Caney  was  not  San- 
168 


Crittenden 

tiago;  and  Graf  ton,  too,  mounted  his  horse 
and  galloped  after  Basil. 


At  head-quarters  began  the  central  lane  of 
death  that  led  toward  San  Juan,  and  Basil 
picked  his  way  through  it  at  a  slow  walk— 
his  excitement  gone  for  the  moment  and  his 
heart  breaking  at  the  sight  of  the  terrible  pro 
cession  on  its  way  to  the  rear.  Men  with  arms 
in  slings;  men  with  trousers  torn  away  at  the 
knee,  and  bandaged  legs;  men  with  brow, 
face,  mouth,  or  throat  swathed;  men  with  no 
shirts,  but  a  broad  swathe  around  the  chest 
or  stomach — each  bandage  grotesquely  pict 
ured  with  human  figures  printed  to  show  how 
the  wound  should  be  bound,  on  whatever  part 
of  the  body  the  bullet  entered.  Men  staggering 
along  unaided,  or  between  two  comrades,  or 
borne  on  litters,  some  white  and  quiet,  some 
groaning  and  blood-stained,  some  conscious, 
some  dying,  some  using  a  rifle  for  a  support, 
or  a  stick  thrust  through  the  side  of  a  tomato- 
can.  Rolls,  haversacks,  blouses,  hardtack, 
bibles,  strewn  by  the  wayside,  where  the  sol 
diers  had  thrown  them  before  they  went  into 
action.  It  was  curious,  but  nearly  all  of  the 
169 


Crittenden 

wounded  were  dazed  and  drunken  in  appear 
ance,  except  at  the  brows,  which  were  tightly 
drawn  with  pain.  There  was  one  man,  with 
short,  thick,  upright  red  hair,  stumbling  from 
one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other,  with  no 
wound  apparent,  and  muttering: 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  happened  to  me. 
I  don't  know  what  happened  to  me." 

Another,  hopping  across  the  creek  on  one 
leg — the  other  bare  and  wounded — and  using 
his  gun,  muzzle  down,  as  a  vaulting-pole. 
Another,  with  his  arm  in  the  sling,  pointing 
out  the  way. 

"  Take  this  road,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
where  that  one  goes,  but  I  know  this  one.  I 
went  up  this  one,  and  brought  back  a  souve 
nir,"  he  added,  cheerily,  shaking  a  bloody 
arm. 

And  everywhere  men  were  cautioning  him 
to  beware  of  the  guerillas,  who  were  in  the 
trees,  adding  horror  to  the  scene — shooting 
wounded  men  on  litters,  hospital  men,  doctors. 
Once,  there  was  almost  the  horror  of  a  panic 
in  the  crowded  road.  Soldiers  answered  the 
guerilla  fire  from  the  road;  men  came  run 
ning  back;  bullets  spattered  around. 

Ahead,  the  road  was  congested  with  sol- 
170 


Crittenden 

diers.  Beyond  them  was  anchored  the  balloon, 
over  the  Bloody  Ford — drawing  the  Spanish 
fire  to  the  troops  huddled  beneath  it.  There 
was  the  death-trap. 

And,  climbing  from  an  ambulance  to 
mount  his  horse,  a  little,  bent  old  man,  weak 
and  trembling  from  fever,  but  with  his  gentle 
blue  eyes  glinting  fire — Basil's  hero — ex-Con 
federate  Jerry  Carter. 

"  Give  the  Yanks  hell,  boys,"  he  shouted. 


It  had  been  a  slow,  toilsome  march  up  that 
narrow  lane  of  death,  and,  so  far,  Crittenden 
had  merely  been  sprinkled  with  Mauser  and 
shrapnel.  His  regiment  had  begun  to  deploy 
to  the  left,  down  the  bed  of  a  stream.  The 
negro  cavalry  and  the  Rough  Riders  were  de 
ploying  to  the  right.  ISTow  broke  the  storm. 
Imagine  sheet  after  sheet  of  hailstones,  coated 
with  polished  steel,  and  swerved  when  close 
to  the  earth  at  a  sharp  angle  to  the  line  of  de 
scent,  and  sweeping  the  air  horizontally  with 
an  awful  hiss — swifter  in  flight  than  a  peal 
of  thunder  from  sky  to  earth,  and  hardly  less 
swift  than  the  lightning  flash  that  caused  it. 

"T-t-seu-u-u-h!  T-t-seu-oo!  T-t-seu-oo!"— 
171 


Crittenden 

they  went  like  cloud  after  cloud  of  lightning- 
winged  insects,  and  passing,  by  God's  mercy 
and  the  Spaniard's  bad  marksmanship — 
passing  high.  Between  two  crashes,  came  a 
sudden  sputter,  and  some  singing  thing  began 
to  play  up  and  down  through  the  trees,  and 
to  right  and  left,  in  a  steady  hum.  It  was  a 
machine  gun  playing  for  the  range — like  a 
mighty  hose  pipe,  watering  earth  and  trees 
with  a  steady,  spreading  jet  of  hot  lead.  It 
was  like  some  strange,  huge  monster,  unsee 
ing  and  unseen,  who  knows  where  his  prey  is 
hidden  and  is  searching  for  it  blindly — by 
feeling  or  by  sense  of  smell — coming  ever 
nearer,  showering  the  leaves  down,  patting 
into  the  soft  earth  ahead,  swishing  to  right 
and  to  left,  and  at  last  playing  in  a  steady 
stream  about  the  prostrate  soldiers. 

"  Swish-ee!     Swish-ee!     Swishee! " 

"Whew!"  said  Abe  Long. 

"God!  "said  Reynolds. 

Ah,  ye  scornful  veterans  of  the  great  war. 
In  ten  minutes  the  Spaniard  let  fly  with  his 
Mauser  more  bullets  than  did  you  fighting 
hard  for  two  long  hours,  and  that  one  machine 
gun  loosed  more  death  stings  in  an  hour  than 
did  a  regiment  of  you  in  two.  And  they  were 
172 


Crittenden 

coming  from  intrenchments  on  an  all  but 
vertical  hill,  from  piles  of  unlimited  ammuni 
tion,  and  from  soldiers  who  should  have  been 
as  placid  as  the  earth  under  them  for  all  the 
demoralization  that  hostile  artillery  fire  was 
causing  them. 

And  not  all  of  them  passed  high.  After  that 
sweep  of  glistening  steel  rain  along  the  edge 
of  the  woods  rose  the  cry  here,  there,  every 
where  : 

"Hospital  man!  hospital  man!" 

And  here  and  there,  in  the  steady  pelt  of 
bullets,  went  the  quiet,  brave  fellows  with  red 
crosses  on  their  sleeves;  across  the  creek,  Crit 
tenden  could  see  a  tall,  young  doctor,  bare 
headed  in  the  sun,  stretching  out  limp  figures 
on  the  sand  under  the  bank — could  see  him 
and  his  assistants  stripping  off  blouse  and 
trousers  and  shirt,  and  wrapping  and  binding, 
and  newly  wounded  being  ever  brought  in. 

And  behind  forged  soldiers  forward,  a  tall 
aide  at  the  ford  urging  them  across  and  stop 
ping  a  panic  among  volunteers. 

"  Come  back,  you  cowards — come  back! 
Push  'em  back,  boys!  " 

A  horse  was  crossing  the  stream.  There 
was  a  hissing  shriek  in  the  air,  a  geyser  spout- 


Crittenden 

ing  from  the  creek,  the  remnants  of  a  horse 
thrown  upward,  and  five  men  tossed  in  a 
swirl  like  straw:  and,  a  moment  later,  a  boy 
feebly  paddling  towards  the  shore — while  the 
water  ran  past  him  red  with  blood.  And, 
through  it  all,  looking  backward,  Crittenden 
saw  little  Carter  coming  on  horseback,  calm 
of  face,  calm  of  manner,  with  his  hands  folded 
over  his  saddle,  and  his  eyes  looking  upward 
— little  Carter  who  had  started  out  in  an  am 
bulance  that  morning  with  a  temperature  of 
one  hundred  and  four,  and,  meeting  wounded 
soldiers,  gave  up  his  wagon  to  them,  mounted 
his  horse,  and  rode  into  battle — to  come  out 
normal  at  dusk.  And  behind  him — erect, 
proud,  face  aflame,  eyes  burning,  but  hardly 
less  cool — rode  Basil.  Crittenden's  eyes  filled 
with  love  and  pride  for  the  boy. 
"  God  bless  him — God  save  him!  " 


A  lull  came — one  of  the  curious  lulls  that 
come  periodically  in  battle  for  the  reason  that 
after  any  violent  effort  men  must  have  a 
breathing  spell — and  the  mist  of  bullets  swept 
on  to  the  right  like  a  swift  passing  shower  of 
rain. 

i74 


Crittenden 

There  was  a  splash  in  the  creek  behind  Crit 
tenden,  and  someone  fell  on  his  face  behind 
the  low  bank  with  a  fervent : 

"  Thank  God.  I've  got  this  far."  It  was 
Grafton. 

'  That  nigger  of  yours  is  coming  on  some 
where  back  there,"  he  added,  and  presently 
he  rose  and  calmly  peered  over  the  bank  and 
at  the  line  of  yellow  dirt  on  the  crest  of 
the  hill.  A  bullet  spat  in  the  ground  close 
by.  f 

"  That  hit  you  ? "  he  asked,  without  alter 
ing  the  tone  of  his  voice — without  even  lower 
ing  his  glasses. 

Reynolds,  on  his  right,  had  ducked  quickly. 
Crittenden  looked  up  in  surprise.  The  South 
had  no  monopoly  of  nerve — nor,  in  that  cam 
paign,  the  soldier. 

"  Well,  by  God,"  said  Reynolds,  irritably 
— the  bullet  had  gone  through  his  sleeve. 
"  This  ain't  no  time  to  joke." 

Grafton's  face  was  still  calm — lie  was  still 
looking.  Presently  he  turned  and  beckoned 
to  somebody  in  the  rear. 

"  There  he  is,  now." 

Looking  behind,  Crittenden  had  to  laugh. 
There  was  Bob,  in  a  cavalryman's  hat,  with  a 


Crittenden 

Krag-Jorgensen  in  his  hand,  and  an  ammuni 
tion  belt  buckled  around  him. 

As  he  started  toward  Grafton,  a  Lieuten 
ant  halted  him. 

"  Why  aren't  you  with  your  regiment? " 
he  demanded  sharply. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  regiment.  I'se  lookin'  fer 
Ole  Captain." 

"  Get  back  into  your  regiment,"  said  the 
officer,  with  an  oath,  and  pointing  behind 
to  the  Tenth  Colored  Cavalry  coming  up. 

"  Huh !  "  he  said,  looking  after  the  officer 
a  moment,  and  then  he  came  on  to  the  edge 
of  the  creek. 

"  Go  to  the  rear,  Bob,"  shouted  Crittenden, 
sharply,  and  the  next  moment  Bob  was  crash 
ing  through  the  bushes  to  the  edge  of  the 
creek. 

"  Foh  Gawd,  Ole  Cap'n,  I  sutn'ly  is  glad  to 
fine  you.  I  wish  you'd  jes  show  me  how  to 
wuk  this  gun.  I'se  gwine  to  fight  right  side 
o'  you — you  heah  me." 

"  Go  back,  Bob,"  said  Crittenden,  firmly. 

"  Silence  in  the  ranks,"  roared  a  Lieuten 
ant.  Bob  hesitated.  Just  then  a  company  of 
the  Tenth  Cavalry  filed  down  the  road  as  they 
were  deployed  to  the  right.  Crittenden's  file 
176 


Crittenden 

of  soldiers  could  see  that  the  last  man  was  a 
short,  fat  darky — evidently  a  recruit — and 
he  was  swinging;  along  as  jauntily  as  in  a  cake- 
walk.  As  he  wheeled  pompously,  he  dropped 
his  gun,  leaped  into  the  air  with  a  yell  of 
amazed  rage  and  pain,  catching  at  the  seat  of 
his  trousers  with  both  hands.  A  bullet  had 
gone  through  both  buttocks. 

"  Gawd,  Ole  Cap'n,  did  you  see  dat 
nigger? " 

A  roar  of  laughter  went  down  the  bed  of 
the  creek. 

"  Go  back!  "  repeated  Crittenden,  threat 
eningly,  "  and  stop  calling  me  Old  Captain." 
Bob  looked  after  the  file  of  colored  troops,  and 
then  at  Crittenden. 

"All  right,  Ole  Cap'n;  I  tol'  you  in  ole 
Kentuck  that  I  gwine  to  fight  wid  the  nig 
gers  ef  you  don't  lernme  fight  wid  you.  I 
don't  like  disgracin'  the  family  dis  way,  but 
'tain't  my  fault,  an'  s'pose  you  git  shot— 
the  slap  of  the  flat  side  of  a  sword  across 
Bob's  back  made  him  jump. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  thundered 
an  angry  officer.  "  Get  into  line — get  into 
line." 

"  I  ain't  no  sojcr." 

177 


Crittenden 

"  Get  into  line/'  and  Bob  ran  after  the  dis 
appearing  file,  shaking  his  head  helplessly. 

The  crash  started  again,  and  the  hum  of 
bees  and  the  soft  snap  of  the  leaves  when  bul 
lets  clipped  them  like  blows  with  a  rattan 
cane,  and  the  rattling  sputter  of  the  machine 
guns,  and  once  more  came  that  long,  long 
wait  that  tries  the  soldier's  heart,  nerve,  and 
brain. 

"  Why  was  not  something  done — why?  " 

And  again  rose  the  cry  for  the  hospital  men, 
and  again  the  limp  figures  were  brought  in 
from  the  jungle,  and  he  could  see  the  tall 
doctor  with  the  bare  head  helping  the  men 
who  had  been  dressed  with  a  first-aid  bandage 
to  the  protecting  bank  of  the  creek  farther 
up,  to  make  room  for  the  fresh  victims.  And 
as  he  stood  up  once,  Crittenden  saw  him  throw 
his  hand  quickly  up  to  his  temple  and  sink  to 
the  blood-stained  sand.  The  assistant,  who 
bent  over  him,  looked  up  quickly  and  shook 
his  head  to  another,  who  was  binding  a 
wounded  leg  and  looking  anxiously  to  know 
the  fatal  truth. 

"  I've  got  it,"  said  a  soldier  to  Crittenden's 
left;  joyously,  he  said  it,  for  the  bullet  had 
merely  gone  through  his  right  shoulder.  He 
178 


Crittenden 

could  fight  no  more,  he  had  a  wound  and  he 
could  wear  a  scar  to  his  grave. 

"  So  have  I,"  said  another,  with  a  groan. 
And  then  next  him  there  was  a  sudden,  soft 
thud: 

"  T-h-u-p!  "  It  was  the  sound  of  a  bullet 
going  into  thick  flesh,  and  the  soldier  sprang 
to  his  feet — the  impulse  seemed  uncontrollable 
for  the  wounded  to  spring  to  their  feet — and 
dropped  with  a  groan — dead.  Crittenden 
straightened  him  out  sadly — putting  his  hat 
over  his  face  and  drawing  his  arms  to  his  sides. 
Above,  he  saw  with  sudden  nausea,  buzzards 
circling — little  cared  they  whether  the  dead 
were  American  or  Spaniard,  as  long  as  there 
were  eyes  to  pluck  and  lips  to  tear  away,  and 
then  straightway,  tragedy  merged  into  com 
edy  as  swiftly  as  on  a  stage.  Out  of  the 
woods  across  the  way  emerged  a  detail  of 
negro  troopers — sent  to  clear  the  woods  behind 
of  sharp-shooters — and  last  came  Bob.  The 
detail,  passing  along  the  creek  on  the  other 
bank  from  them,  scattered,  and  with  Bob 
next  the  creek.  Bob  shook  his  gun  aloft. 

"  I  can  wuk  her  now !  " 

Another  lull  came,  and  from  the  thicket 
arose  the  cry  of  a  thin,  high,  foreign  voice: 
179 


Crittenden 

"  Americano — Americano!  " 

"  "VVhut  regiment  you  b'long  to  ? "  the 
voice  was  a  negro's  and  was  Bob's,  and  Graf- 
ton  and  Crittenden  listened  keenly.  Bob  had 
evidently  got  a  sharp-shooter  up  a  tree,  and 
caught  him  loading  his  gun. 

"  Tenth  Cav'rly — Tenth!  "  was  the  answer. 
Bob  laughed  long  and  loud. 

"  Well,  you  jus  the  man  I  been  lookin'  fer 
— the  fust  white  man  I  ever  seed  whut 
'longed  to  a  nigger  regiment.  Come  down, 
honey."  There  was  the  sharp,  clean  crack  of  a 
Krag-Jorgensen,  and  a  yell  of  savage  triumph. 

"  That  nigger's  a  bird,"  said  Grafton. 

Something  serious  was  going  to  be  done 
now — the  intuition  of  it  ran  down  the  line  in 
that  mysterious  fashion  by  which  information 
passes  down  a  line  of  waiting  men.  The  line 
rose,  advanced,  and  dropped  again.  Com 
panies  deployed  to  the  left  and  behind — fight 
ing  their  way  .through  the  chapparal  as  a 
swimmer  buffets  his  way  through  choppy 
waves.  Every  man  saw  now  that  the  brigade 
was  trying  to  form  in  line  of  battle  for  a 
charge  on  that  curving,  smokeless  flame  of  fire 
that  ran  to  and  fro  around  the  top  of  the  hill 
—blazing  fiercely  and  steadily  here  and  there. 
180 


Crittenden 

For  half  an  hour  the  officers  struggled  to  form 
the  scattering  men.  Forward  a  little  way; 
slipping  from  one  Lush  and  tree  to  another; 
through  the  thickets  and  bayonet  grass;  now 
creeping;  now  a  dash  through  an  open  spot; 
now  flat  on  the  stomach,  until  Crittenden  saw 
a  wire  fence  stretching  ahead.  Followed  an 
other  wait.  And  then  a  squad  of  negro 
troopers  crossed  the  road,  going  to  the  right, 
and  diagonally.  The  bullets  rained  about 
them,  and  they  scuttled  swiftly  into  the 
brush.  The  hindmost  one  dropped;  the  rest 
kept  on,  unseeing;  but  Crittenden  saw  a  Lieu 
tenant — it  was  Sharpe,  whom  he  had  met  at 
home  and  at  Chickamauga — look  back  at  the 
soldier,  who  was  trying  to  raise  himself  on  his 
elbow — while  the  bullets  seemed  literally  to  be 
mowing  down  the  tall  grass  about  him.  Then 
Crittenden  heard  a  familiar  grunt  behind  him, 
and  the  next  minute  Bob's  figure  sprang  out 
into  the  open — making  for  the  wounded  man 
by  the  sympathy  of  race.  As  he  stooped,  to 
Crittenden's  horror,  Bob  pitched  to  the  ground 
— threshing  around  like  an  animal  that  has 
received  a  blow  on  the  head.  Without  a 
thought,  without  consciousness  of  his  own 
motive  or  his  act,  Crittenden  sprang  to  his  feet 
181 


Crittenden 

and  dashed  for  Bob.  Within  ten  feet  of  the 
boy,  his  toe  caught  in  a  root  and  he  fell  head 
long.  As  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  he  saw 
Sharpe  making  for  him — thinking  that  he  had 
been  shot  down — and,  as  he  turned,  with  Bob 
in  his  arms,  half  a  dozen  men,  including  Graf- 
ton  and  his  own  Lieutenant,  were  retreating 
back  into  cover — all  under  the  same  impulse 
and  with  the  same  motive  having  started  for 
him,  too.  Behind  a  tree,  Crittenden  laid  Bob 
down,  still  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side 
helplessly.  There  was  a  trail  of  blood  across 
his  temple,  and,  wiping  it  away,  he  saw  that 
the  bullet  had  merely  scraped  along  the  skull 
without  penetrating  it.  In  a  moment,  Bob 
groaned,  opened  his  eyes,  sat  up,  looked  around 
with  rolling  eyes,  grunted  once  or  twice, 
straightened  out,  and  reached  for  his  gun, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  Gimme  drink,  Ole  Cap'n,  please,  suh." 

Crittenden  handed  him  his  canteen,  and 
Bob  drank  and  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 

"  Dat  ain't  nuttin',"  he  said,  contemptu 
ously,  feeling  along  the  wound.  "  'Tain't 
nigh  as  bad  as  mule  kick.  'Tain't  nuttin', 
't  all."  And  then  he  almost  fell. 

"  Go  back,  Bob." 

182 


Crittenden 

"  All  right,  Ole  Cap'n,  I  reckon  I'll  jus' 
lay  down  heah  little  while,"  he  said,  stretch 
ing  out  behind  the  tree. 

And  Grafton  reached  over  for  Crittenden's 
hand.  He  was  getting  some  new  and  startling 
ideas  about  the  difference  in  the  feeling  tow 
ard  the  negro  of  the  man  who  once  owned 
him  body  and  soul  and  of  the  man  who  freed 
him  body  and  soul.  And  in  the  next  few 
minutes  he  studied  Crittenden  as  he  had 
done  before — taking  in  detail  the  long  hair, 
lean  face  strongly  chiselled,  fearless  eye, 
modest  demeanor — marking  the  intellectual 
look  of  the  face — it  was  the  face  of  a  stu 
dent — a  gentleman — gently  born.  And,  there 
in  the  heat  of  the  fight,  he  fell  to  marvelling 
over  the  nation  that  had  such  a  man  to  send 
into  the  field  as  a  common  soldier. 

Again  they  moved  forward.  Crittenden's 
Lieutenant  dropped — wounded. 

"  Go  on,"  he  cried,  "  damn  it,  go  on!  " 
Grafton  helped  to  carry  him  back,  stepping 
out  into  the  open  for  him,  and  Crittenden  saw 
a  bullet  lick  up  the  wet  earth  between  the  cor 
respondent's  feet- 
Forward  again!     It  was  a  call  for  volun 
teers  to  advance  and  cut  the  wires.     Critten- 
183 


Crittenden 

den  was  the  first  to  spring  to  his  feet,  and  Abe 
Long  and  Reynolds  sprang  after  him.  For 
ward  they  slipped  on  their  bellies,  and  the  men 
behind  saw  one  brown,  knotty  hand  after  an 
other  reach  up  from  the  grass  and  clip,  clip, 
clip  through  the  thickly  braided  wires. 

Forward  again!  The  men  slipped  like  eels 
through  and  under  the  wires,  and  lay  in  the 
long  grass  behind.  The  time  was  come. 

"  FORAVARD  !  " 

Crittenden  never  knew  before  the  thrill 
that  blast  sent  through  him,  and  never  in  his 
life  did  he  know  it  again. 

It  was  the  call  of  America  to  the  American, 
white  and  black:  and  race  and  color  forgot 
ten,  the  American  answered  with  the  grit  of 
the  Saxon,  the  Celt's  pure  love  of  a  fight,  and 
all  the  dash  of  the  passionate  Gaul. 

As  Crittenden  leaped  to  his  feet,  he  saw 
Reynolds  leap,  too,  and  then  there  was  a  hiss 
ing  hell  of  white  smoke  and  crackling  iron  at 
his  feet — and  Reynolds  disappeared. 

It  was  a  marvel  afterward  but,  at  that  mo 
ment,  Crittenden  hardly  noted  that  the  poor 
fellow  was  blown  into  a  hundred  fragments. 
He  was  in  the  front  line  now.  A  Brig 
adier,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  white 
184 


Crittenden 

hair  shining  in  the  sun,  ran  diagonally  across 
in  front  of  his  line  of  battle,  and,  with  a  wild 
cheer,  the  run  of  death  began. 

God,  how  the  bullets  hissed  and  the  shells 
shrieked;    and,    God,   how   slow — slow — slow, 
was  the  run!     Crittenden's  legs  were  of  lead, 
and  leaden  were  the  legs  of  the  men  with  him 
—running  with   guns   trailing   the   earth  or 
caught  tightly  across  the  breast  and  creeping 
unconsciously.     He  saw  nothing  but  the  men 
in  front  of  him,  the  men  who  were  dropping 
behind  him,  and  the  yellow  line  above,  and  the 
haven  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.    J$o\v  and 
then  he  could  see  a  little,  dirty,  blue  figure 
leap  into  view  on  the  hill  and  disappear.    Two 
men  only  were  ahead  of  him  when  he  reached 
the  foot  of  the  hill — Sharpe  and  a  tall  Cuban 
close  at  his  side  with  machete  drawn — the  one 
Cuban  hero  of  that  fierce  charge.     But  he 
could  hear  labored  panting  behind  him,  and  he 
knew  that  others  were  coming  on.     God,  how 
steep  and  high  that  hill  was!     He  was  gasp 
ing  for  breath  now,  and  he  was  side  by  side 
with    Cuban   and   Lieutenant — gasping,    too. 
To  right  and  left — faint  cheers.    To  the  right, 
a  machine  gun  playing  like  hail  on  the  yel 
low   dirt.      To   his  left   a  shell,   bursting  in 
185 


Crittenden 

front  of  a  climbing,  stniggling  group,  and  the 
soldiers  tumbling  backward  and  rolling  ten 
feet  down  the  hill.  A  lull  in  the  firing — the 
Spaniards  were  running — and  then  the  top — 
the  top !  Sharpe  sprang  over  the  trench,  call 
ing  out  to  save  the  wounded.  A  crouching 
Spaniard  raised  his  pistol,  and  Sharpe  fell. 
With  one  leap,  Crittenden  reached  him  with 
the  butt  of  his  gun  and,  with  savage  exulta 
tion,  he  heard  the  skull  of  the  Spaniard  crash. 


Straight  in  front,  the  Spaniards  were  run 
ning  like  rabbits  through  the  brush.  To  the 
left,  Kent  was  charging  far  around  and  out 
of  sight.  To  the  right,  Rough  Riders  and 
negroes  were  driving  Spaniards  down  one  hill 
and  up  the  next.  The  negroes  were  as  wild 
as  at  a  camp  meeting  or  a  voodoo  dance.  One 
big  Sergeant  strode  along  brandishing  in  each 
hand  a  piece  of  his  carbine  that  had  been  shot 
in  two  by  a  Mauser  bullet,  and  shouting  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  contemptuously: 

"  Heah,  somebody,  gimme  a  gun !  gimme  a 

gun,  I  tell  ye,"  still  striding  ahead  and  looking 

never  behind  him.     "  You  don't  know  how  to 

fight.     Gimme  a  gun!  "     To  the  negro's  left, 

186 


Crittenden 

a  young  Lieutenant  was  going  up  the  hill  with 
naked  sword  in  one  hand  and  a  kodak  in  the 
other — taking  pictures  as  he  ran.  A  bare 
headed  boy,  running  between  him  and  a 
gigantic  negro  trooper,  toppled  suddenly  and 
fell,  and  another  negro  stopped  in  the  charge, 
and,  with  a  groan,  bent  over  him  and  went 
no  farther. 

And  all  the  time  that  machine  gun  was 
playing  on  the  trenches  like  a  hard  rain  in 
summer  dust.  Whenever  a  Spaniard  would 
leap  from  the  trench,  he  fell  headlong.  That 
pitiless  fire  kept  in  the  trenches  the  Spaniards 
who  were  found  there — wretched,  pathetic, 
half -starved  little  creatures— and  some  terrible 
deeds  were  done  in  the  lust  of  slaughter.  One 
gaunt  fellow  thrust  a  clasp-knife  into  the  but 
tock  of  a  shamming  Spaniard,  and,  when  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  blew  the  back  of  his  head 
off.  Some  of  the  Riders  chased  the  enemy 
over  the  hill  and  lay  down  in  the  shade.  One 
of  them  pulled  out  of  a  dead  Spaniard's  pocket 
cigarettes,  cigars,  and  a  lady's  slipper  of  white 
satin;  with  a  grunt  he  put  the  slipper  back. 
Below  the  trenches,  two  boyish  prisoners  sat 
under  a  tree,  crying  as  though  they  were 
broken-hearted,  and  a  big  trooper  walked 
187 


Crittenden 

up    and    patted    them    both    kindly    on    the 
head. 

"  Don't  cry,  boys;  it's  all  right — all  right," 
he  said,  helplessly. 


Over  at  the  block-house,  Crittenden  stopped 
firing  suddenly,  and,  turning  to  his  men, 
shouted : 

"  Get  back  over  the  hill,  boys,  they're  going 
to  start  in  again."  As  they  ran  back,  a  Lieu 
tenant-Colonel  met  them. 

"  Are  you  in  command?  " 

Crittenden  saluted. 

"  ISTo,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Yes;  sir,"  said  the  old  Sergeant  at  his  side. 
"  He  was.  He  brought  these  men  up  the 
hill." 

"  The  hell  he  did.  Where  are  your 
officers? " 

The  old  Sergeant  motioned  toward  the  val 
ley  below,  and  Crittenden  opened  his  lips  to 
explain,  but  just  then  the  sudden  impression 
came  to  him  that  someone  had  struck  him 
from  behind  with  the  butt  of  a  musket,  and 
he  tried  to  wheel  around — his  face  amazed 
and  wondering.  Then  he  dropped.  He  won- 
188 


Crittenden 

dered,  too,  why  lie  couldn't  get  around,  and 
then  he  wondered  how  it  was  that  he  hap 
pened  to  be  falling  to  the  earth.  Darkness 
came  then,  and  through  it  ran  one  bitter 
thought — he  had  been  shot  in  the  back.  He 
did  think  of  his  mother  and  of  Judith — but  it 
was  a  fleeting  vision  of  both,  arid  his  main 
thought  was  a  dull  wonder  whether  there 
would  be  anybody  to  explain  how  it  was  that 
h'is  wound  was  not  in  front.  And  then,  as 
he  felt  himself  lifted,  it  flashed  that  he  would 
at  least  be  found  on  top  of  the  hill,  and  be 
yond  the  Spaniards'  trench,  and  he  saw  Black- 
ford's  face  above  him.  Then  he  was  dropped 
heavily  to  the  ground  again  and  Blackford 
pitched  across  his  body.  There  was  one 
glimpse  of  Abe  Long's  anxious  face  above 
him,  another  vision  of  Judith,  and  then  quiet, 
painless  darkness. 


It  was  fiercer  firing  now  than  ever.  The 
Spaniards  were  in  the  second  line  of  trenches 
and  were  making  a  sortie.  Under  the  hill 
sat  Grafton  and  another  correspondent  while 
the  storm  of  bullets  swept  over  them.  Graf- 
ton  was  without  glasses — a  ]\lauser  had  fur- 
189 


Crittenden 

rowed  the  skin  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose, 
breaking  his  spectacle-frame  so  that  one  glass 
dropped  on  one  side  of  his  nose  and  the  other 
on  the  other.  The  other  man  had  several 
narrow  squeaks,  as  he  called  them,  and,  even 
as  they  sat,  a  bullet  cut  a  leaf  over  his 
head  and  it  dropped  between  the  pages  of 
his  note-book.  He  closed  the  book  and 
looked  up. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said.  "  That's  just  what  I 
want — I'll  keep  that." 

"  I  observe,"  said  Grafton,  "  that  the  way 
one  of  these  infernal  bullets  sounds  depends 
entirely  on  where  you  happen  to  be  when  you 
hear  it.  When  a  sharp-shooter  has  picked  you 
out  and  is  plugging  at  you,  they  are  intelli 
gent  and  vindictive.  Coming  through  that 
bottom,  they  were  for  all  the  world  like  a  lot 
of  nasty  little  insects.  And  listen  to  'em 
now."  The  other  man  listened.  "  Hear  'em 
as  they  pass  over  and  go  out  of  hearing.  That 
is  for  all  the  world  like  the  last  long  note  of  a 
meadow  lark's  song  when  you  hear  him  afar 
off  and  at  sunset.  But  I  notice  that  simile 
didn't  occur  to  me  until  I  got  under  the  lee  of 
this  hill."  He  looked  around.  "  This  hill 
will  be  famous,  I  suppose.  Let's  go  up 
190 


Crittenden 

higher."  They  went  up  higher,  passing  a 
crowd  of  skulkers,  or  men  in  reserve — Graf- 
ton  could  not  tell  which — and  as  they  went  by 
a  soldier  said: 

"  Well,  if  I  didn't  have  to  be  here,  I  be 
damned  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  anybody  get 
me  here.  What  them  fellers  come  fer,  I  can't 
see." 

The  firing  was  still  hot  when  the  two  men 
got  up  to  the  danger  line,  and  there  they  lay 
down.  A  wounded  man  lay  at  Grafton's 
elbow.  Once  his  throat  rattled  and  Grafton 
turned  curiously. 

"  That's  the  death-rattle,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  and  he  had  never  heard  a  death-rattle 
before.  The  poor  fellow's  throat  rattled 
again,  and  again  Grafton  turned. 

"  I  never  knew  before,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  that  a  dying  man's  throat  rattled  but  once." 
Then  it  flashed  on  him  with  horror  that  he 
should  have  so  little  feeling,  and  he  knew  it 
at  once  as  the  curious  callousness  that  comes 
quickly  to  toughen  the  heart  for  the  sights 
of  war.  A  man  killed  in  battle  was  not  an 
ordinary  dead  man  at  all — he  stirred  no  sen 
sation  at  all — no  more  than  a  dead  animal. 
Already  he  had  heard  officers  remarking 
191 


Crittenden 

calmly  to  one  another,  and  apparently  without 
feeling: 

"  Well,  So  and  So  was  killed  to-day."  And 
he  looked  back  to  the  disembarkation,  when 
the  army  was  simply  in  a  hurry.  Two  negro 
troopers  were  drowned  trying  to  get  off  on  the 
little  pier.  They  were  fished  up;  a  rope  was 
tied  about  the  neck  of  each,  and  they  were 
lashed  to  the  pier  and  left  to  be  beaten  against 
the  wooden  pillars  by  the  waves  for  four  hours 
before  four  comrades  came  and  took  them  out 
and  buried  them.  Such  was  the  dreadful  cal 
lousness  that  swe  ps  through  the  human  heart 
when  war  begins,  and  he  was  under  its  influ 
ence  himself,  and  long  afterward  he  remem 
bered  with  shame  his  idle  and  half-scientific 
and  useless  curiosity  about  the  wounded  man 
at  his  elbow.  As  he  turned  his  head,  the  sol 
dier  gave  a  long,  deep,  peaceful  sigh,  as 
though  he  had  gone  to  sleep.  With  pity  now, 
Grafton  turned  to  him — and  he  had  gone  to 
sleep,  but  it  was  his  last  sleep. 

"  Look,"  said  the  other  man.  Grafton 
looked  upward.  Along  the  trenches,  and 
under  a  hot  fire,  moved  little  Jerry  Carter, 
with  figure  bent,  hands  clasped  behind  him — 
with  the  manner,  for  all  the  world,  of  a  deacon 
192 


Crittenden 

in  a  country  graveyard  looking  for  inscriptions 
on  tomb-stones. 

Now  and  then  a  bullet  would  have  a  hoarse 
sound — that  meant  that  it  had  ricochetted. 
At  intervals  of  three  or  four  minutes  a  huge, 

O     / 

old-fashioned  projectile  would  labor  through 
the  air,  visible  all  the  time,  and  crash  harmless 
ly  into  the  woods.  The  Americans  called  it 
the  "  long  yellow  feller,"  and  sometimes  a 
negro  trooper  would  turn  and  with  a  yell  shoot 
at  it  as  it  passed  over.  A  little  way  off,  a  squad 
of  the  Tenth  Cavalry  was  digging  a  trench — 
close  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Now  and  then 
one  would  duck — particularly  the  one  on  the 
end.  He  had  his  tongue  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  was  twirling  his  pick  over  his  shoulder 
like  a  railroad  hand,  and  grunting  with  every 
stroke.  Grafton  could  hear  him. 

"Foh  Gawd  (huh!)  never  thought  (huh!) 
I'd  git  to  love  (huh!)  a  pick  befoh!  "  Graf- 
ton  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  You  see  the  charge?  " 

"  Part  of  it." 

"  That  tall  fellow  with  the  blue  handker 
chief  around  his  throat,  bare-headed,  long 
hair?  " 

"   the   other  man  stopped  for  a 
i93 


Crittenden 

moment.  His  eye  had  caught  sight  of  a  fig 
ure  on  the  ground — on  the  top  of  the  trench, 
and  with  the  profile  of  his  face  between  him 
and  the  after-glow,  and  his  tone  changed — 
"there  he  is!  " 

Grafton  pressed  closer.  "  What,  that  the 
fellow  ? "  There  was  the  handkerchief,  the 
head  was  bare,  the  hair  long  and  dark.  The 
man's  eyes  were  closed,  but  he  was  breathing. 
Below  them  at  that  moment  they  heard  the 
surgeon  say: 

"  Up  there."  And  two  hospital  men,  with 
a  litter,  came  toward  them  and  took  up  the 
body.  As  they  passed,  Grafton  recoiled. 

"  Good  God !  "     It  was  Crittenden. 

And,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  trench,  with 
Sharpe  lying  with  his  face  on  his  arm  a  few 
feet  away,  and  the  tall  Cuban  outstretched 
beside  him,  and  the  dead  Spaniards,  Amer 
icans,  and  Cubans  about  them,  Grafton  told 
the  story  of  Crittenden.  And  at  the  end  the 
other  man  gave  a  low  whistle  and  smote  the 
back  of  one  hand  into  the  palm  of  the  other 
softly. 

Dusk  fell  quickly.  The  full  moon  rose. 
The  stars  came  out,  and  under  them,  at  the 
foot  of  the  big  mountains,  a  red  fire  burned 
194 


Crittenden 

sharply  out  in  the  mist  rising  over  captured 
Caney,  from  which  tireless  Chaffee  was  al 
ready  starting  his  worn-out  soldiers  on  an  all- 
night  march  by  the  rear  and  to  the  trenches 
at  San  Juan.  And  along  the  stormed  hill-side 
camp-fires  were  glowing  out  where  the  lucky 
soldiers  who  had  rations  to  cook  were  cheerily 
frying  bacon  and  hardtack.  Grafton  moved 
down  to  watch  one  squad  and,  as  he  stood  on 
the  edge  of  the  firelight,  wondering  at  the 
cheery  talk  and  joking  laughter,  somebody 
behind  him  said  sharply: 

"  Watch  out,  there,"  and  he  turned  to  find 
himself  on  the  edge  of  a  grave  which  a  detail 
was  digging  not  ten  yards  away  from  the  fire 
— digging  for  a  dead  comrade.  Never  had  he 
seen  a  more  peaceful  moonlit  night  than  the 
night  that  closed  over  the  battle-field.  It  was 
hard  for  him  to  realize  that  the  day  had  not 
been  a  terrible  dream,  and  yet,  as  the  moon 
rose,  its  rich  light,  he  knew,  was  stealing 
into  the  guerilla-haunted  jungles,  stealing 
through  guava-bush  and  mango-tree,  down 
through  clumps  of  Spanish  bayonet,  on  stiff 
figures  that  would  rise  no  more;  on  white,  set 
faces  with  the  peace  of  painless  death  upon 
them  or  the  agony  of  silent  torture,  fought  out 
195 


Crittenden 

under  fierce  heat  and  in  the  silence  of  the 
jungle  alone. 

Looking  toward  Caney  he  could  even  see 
the  hill  from  which  he  had  witnessed  the  flight 
of  the  first  shell  that  had  been  the  storm  centre 
of  the  hurricane  of  death  that  had  swept  all 
through  the  white,  cloudless  day.  It  burst 
harmlessly — that  shell — and  meant  no  more 
than  a  signal  to  fire  to  the  soldiers  closing  in  on 
Caney,  the  Cubans  lurking  around  a  block 
house  at  a  safe  artillery  distance  in  the  woods, 
and  to  the  impatient  battery  before  San  Juan. 
Retrospectively  now,  it  meant  the  death-knell 
of  brave  men,  the  quick  cry  and  long  groaning 
of  the  wounded,  the  pained  breathing  of  sick 
and  fever-stricken,  the  quickened  heart-beats 
of  the  waiting  and  anxious  at  home — the  low 
sobbing  of  the  women  to  whom  fatal  news 
came.  It  meant  Cervera's  gallant  dash,  Samp 
son  and  Schley's  great  victory,  the  fall  of 
Santiago;  freedom  for  Cuba,  a  quieter  sleep 
for  the  "  Maine  "  dead,  and  peace  with  Spain. 
Once  more,  as  he  rose,  he  looked  at  the  dark 
woods,  the  dead-haunted  jungles  which  the 
moon  was  draping  with  a  more  than  mortal 
beauty,  and  he  knew  that  in  them,  as  in  the 
long  grass  of  the  orchard-like  valley  below 
196 


Crittenden 

him,  comrade  was  looking  for  dead  comrade. 
And  among  the  searchers  was  the  faithful 
Bob,  looking  for  his  Old  Captain,  Crittenden, 
his  honest  heart  nigh  to  bursting,  for  already 
he  had  found  Raincrow  torn  with  a  shell  and 
he  had  borne  a  body  back  to  the  horror- 
haunted  little  hospital  under  the  creek  bank 
at  the  Bloody  Ford — a  body  from  which  the 
head  hung  over  his  shoulder — limp,  with  a 
bullet-hole  through  the  neck — the  body  of 
his  Young  Captain,  Basil. 


197 


XII 

GRAFTON  sat,  sobered  and  saddened,  where 
he  was  awhile.  The  moon  swung  upward, 
white  and  peaceful,  toward  mild-eyed  stars. 
Crickets  chirped  in  the  grass  around  him,  and 
nature's  low  night-music  started  in  the  woods 
and  the  valley  below,  as  though  the  earth  had 
never  known  the  hell  of  fire  and  human  pas 
sion  that  had  rocked  it  through  that  day. 
Was  there  so  much  difference  between  the 
creatures  of  the  earth  and  the  creatures  of 
his  own  proud  estate?  Had  they  not  both 
been  on  the  same  brute  level  that  day?  And, 
save  for  the  wounded  and  the  men  who  had 
comrades  wounded  and  dead,  were  not  the 
unharmed  as  careless,  almost  as  indifferent  as 
cricket  and  tree-toad  to  the  tragedies  of  their 
sphere?  Had  there  been  any  inner  change  in 
any  man  who  had  fought  that  day  that  was 
not  for  the  worse?  Would  he  himself  get 
normal  again,  he  wondered?  Was  there  one 
sensitive  soul  who  fully  realized  the  horror  of 
that  day  ?  If  so,  he  would  better  have  been  at 


Crittenden 

home.  The  one  fact  that  stood  above  every 
thought  that  had  come  to  him  that  day  was 
the  utter,  the  startling  insignificance  of  death. 
Could  that  mean  much  more  than  a  startlingly 
sudden  lowering  of  the  estimate  put  upon  hu 
man  life?  Across  the  hollow  behind  him  and 
from  a  tall  palm  over  the  Spanish  trenches, 
rose,  loud  and  clear,  the  night-song  of  a  mock 
ing-bird.  Over  there  the  little  men  in  blue 
were  toiling,  toiling,  toiling  at  their  trenches; 
and  along  the  crest  of  the  hill  the  big  men  in 
blue  were  toiling,  toiling,  toiling  at  theirs. 
All  through  the  night  anxious  eyes  would  be 
strained  for  Chaffee,  and  at  dawn  the  slaugh 
ter  wTould  begin  again.  Wherever  he  looked, 
he  could  see  with  his  mind's  eye  stark  faces  in 
the  long  grass  of  the  valley  and  the  Spanish- 
bayonet  clumps  in  the  woods.  All  day  he  had 
seen  them  there — dying  of  thirst,  bleeding  to 
death — alone.  As  he  went  down  the  hill, 
lights  were  moving  along  the  creek  bed.  A 
nnv  of  muffled  dead  lay  along  the  bed  of  the 
creek.  Yet  they  were  still  bringing  in  dead 
and  wounded — a  dead  officer  with  his  will 
and  a  letter  to  his  wife  clasped  in  his  hand. 
He  had  lived  long  enough  to  write  them. 
Hollow-eyed  surgeons  were  moving  here  and 
199 


Crittenden 

there.  Up  the  bank  of  the  creek,  a  voice 
rose: 

"  Come  on,  boys  " — appealingly — "  you're 
not  going  back  on  me.  Come  on,  you  cursed 
cowards!  Good!  Good!  I  take  it  back, 
boys.  Now  we've  got  'em!  " 

Another  voice:  "  Kill  me,  somebody — kill 
me.  For  God's  sake,  kill  me.  Won't  some 
body  give  me  a  pistol?  God — God.  .  .  ." 

Once  Grafton  started  into  a  tent.  On  the 
first  cot  lay  a  handsome  boy,  with  a  white, 
frank  face  and  a  bullet-hole  through  his  neck, 
and  he  recognized  the  dashing  little  fellow 
whom  he  had  seen  splashing  through  the 
bloody  ford  at  a  gallop,  dropping  from  his 
horse  at  a  barbed-wire  fence,  and  dashing  on 
afoot  with  the  Rough  Riders.  The  face  bore 
a  strong  likeness  to  the  face  he  had  seen  on 
the  hill — of  the  Kentuckian,  Crittenden — the 
Kentucky  regular,  as  Grafton  always  men 
tally  characterized  him — and  he  wondered  if 
the  boy  were  not  the  brother  of  whom  he  had 
heard.  The  lad  was  still  alive — but  how 
could  he  live  with  that  wound  in  his  throat? 
Graf  ton's  eyes  filled  with  tears :  it  was  horror 
—horror — all  horror. 

Here  and  there  along  the  shadowed  road 


Crittenden 

lay  a  lifeless  mule  or  horse  or  a  dead  man. 
It  was  curious,  but  a  man  killed  in  battle  was 
not  like  an  ordinary  dead  man — lie  was  no 
more  than  he  was — a  lump  of  clay.  It  was 
more  curious  still  that  one's  pity  seemed  less 
acute  for  man  than  for  horse :  it  was  the  man's 
choice  to  take  the  risk — the  horse  had  no 
choice. 

Here  and  there  by  the  roadside  was  a  grave. 
Comrades  had  halted  there  long  enough  to 
save  a  comrade  from  the  birds  of  prey.  Every 
now  and  then  he  would  meet  a  pack-train 
loaded  with  ammunition  and  ration  boxes;  or 
a  wagon  drawn  by  six  mules  and  driven  by  a 
swearing,  fearless,  tireless  teamster.  The  for 
est  was  ringing  with  the  noise  of  wheels,  the 
creaking  of  harness,  the  shouts  of  teamsters 
and  the  guards  with  them  and  the  officer  in 
charge — all  on  the  way  to  the  working  bea 
vers  on  top  of  the  conquered  hill. 

Going  the  other  way  were  the  poor  wound 
ed,  on  foot,  in  little  groups  of  slowly  moving 
twos  and  threes,  and  in  jolting,  springless 
army  wagons — on  their  way  of  torture  to  more 
torture  in  the  rear.  His  heart  bled  for  them. 
And  the  way  those  men  took  their  suffering! 
Sometimes  the  jolting  wagons  were  too  much 
201 


Crittenden 

for  human  endurance,  and  soldiers  would 
pray  for  the  driver,  when  he  stopped,  not  to 
start  again.  In  one  ambulance  that  he  over 
took,  a  man  groaned. 

"  Grit  your  teeth,"  said  another,  an  old 
Irish  sergeant,  sternly — "  Grit  your  teeth; 
there's  others  that's  hurt  worse'n  you."  The 
sergeant  lifted  his  head,  and  a  bandage  showed 
that  he  was  shot  through  the  face,  and  Graf- 
ton  heard  not  another  sound.  But  it  was  the 
slightly  hurt — the  men  shot  in  the  leg  or 
arm — who  made  the  most  noise.  He  had 
seen  three  men  brought  into  the  hospital  from 
San  Juan.  The  surgeon  took  the  one  who 
was  groaning.  He  had  a  mere  scratch  on  one 
leg.  Another  was  dressed,  and  while  the 
third  sat  silently  on  a  stool,  still  another  wras 
attended,  and  another,  before  the  surgeon 
turned  to  the  man  who  was  so  patiently  await 
ing  his  turn. 

"  Where  are  you  hurt?  " 

The  man  pointed  to  his  left  side. 

"Through?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

That  day  he  had  seen  a  soldier  stagger  out 
from  the  firing-line  with  half  his  face  shot 
away  and  go  staggering  to  the  rear  without 
202 


Crittenden 

aid.  On  the  way  lie  met  a  mounted  staff 
officer,  and  he  raised  his  hand  to  his  hatless, 
bleeding  forehead,  in  a  stern  salute  and,  with 
out  a  gesture  for  aid,  staggered  on.  The  of 
ficer's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Lieutenant,"  said  a  trooper,  just  after 
the  charge  on  the  trenches,  "  I  think  I'm 
wounded." 

"  Can  you  get  to  the  rear  without  help?" 

"  I  think  I  can,  sir,"  and  he  started.  After 
twenty  paces  he  pitched  forward — dead.  His 
Wound  was  through  the  heart. 

At  the  divisional  hospital  were  more  lights, 
tents,  surgeons,  stripped  figures  on  the  tables 
under  the  lights;  rows  of  figures  in  darkness 
outside  the  tents ;  and  rows  of  muffled  shapes 
behind;  the  smell  of  anaesthetics  and  cleans 
ing  fluids;  heavy  breathing,  heavy  groan 
ing,  and  an  occasional  curse  on  the  night 


air. 


Beyond  him  was  a  stretch  of  moonlit  road 
and  coming  toward  him  was  a  soldier,  his  arm 
in  a  sling,  and  staggering  weakly  from  side 
to  side.  '  With  a  start  of  pure  gladness 
saw  that  it  was  Crittenden,  and  he  advanced 
with  his  hand  outstretched. 

"Are  you  badly  hurt?" 
203 


Crittenden 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Crittenden,  pointing  to  his 
hand  and  arm,  but  not  mentioning  the  bullet 
through  his  chest. 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  glad.  I  thought  you  were 
gone  sure  when  I  saw  you  laid  out  on  the 
hill." 

"  Oh,  I  am  all  right,"  he  said,  and  his 
manner  was  as  courteous  as  though  he  had 
been  in  a  drawing-room;  but,  in  spite  of  his 
nonchalance,  Grafton  saw  him  stagger  when 
he  moved  off. 

"  I  say,  you  oughtn't  to  be  walking,"  he 
called.  "  Let  me  help  you,"  but  Crittenden 
waved  him  off. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  repeated,  and  then 
he  stopped.  "  Do  you  know  where  the  hospi 
tal  is?" 

"  God!  "  said  Grafton  softly,  and  he  ran 
back  and  put  his  arm  around  the  soldier — 
Crittenden  laughing  weakly: 

"  I  missed  it  somehow." 

"  Yes,  it's  back  here,"  said  Grafton  gen 
tly,  and  he  saw  now  that  the  soldier's  eyes 
were  dazed  and  that  he  breathed  heavily  and 
leaned  on  him,  laughing  and  apologizing  now 
and  then  with  a  curious  shame  at  his  weak 
ness.  As  they  turned  from  the  road  at  the 
204 


Crittenden 

hospital  entrance,  Crittenden  dropped  to  the 
ground. 

"  Thank  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to 
rest  a  little  while  now.  I'm  all  right  now — 
don't  bother — don't  bother.  I'm  all  right. 
I  feel  kind  o'  sleepy — somehow — very  kind- 
thank—  "  and  he  closed  his  eyes.  A  surgeon 
was  passing  and  Graf  ton  called  him. 

"  He's  all  right,"  said  the  surgeon,  writh  a 
swift  look,  adding  shortly,  "  but  he  must  take 
his  turn." 

Grafton  passed  on — sick.  On  along  the 
muddy  road — through  more  pack-trains,  wag 
ons,  shouts,  creakings,  cursings.  On  through 
the  beautiful  moonlight  night  and  through 
the  beautiful  tropical  forest,  under  tall  cocoa- 
nut  and  taller  palm;  on  past  the  one  long 
grave  of  the  Hough  Eiders — along  the  battle- 
line  of  the  first  little  fight— through  the 
ghastly,  many-colored  masses  of  hideous  land- 
crabs  shuffling  sidewise  into  the  cactus  and 
shuffling  on  with  an  unearthly  rustling  of 
dead  twig  and  fallen  leaf:  along  the  crest  of 
the  foot-hills  arid  down  to  the  little  town  of 
Siboney,  lighted,  bustling  with  preparation 
for  the  wounded  in  the  tents;  bustling  at  the 
beach  with  the  unloading  of  rations,  the  trans- 
205 


Crittenden 

ports  moving  here  and  there  far  out  on  the 
moon-lighted  sea.  Down  there  were  strag 
gler,  wounded  soldier,  teamster,  mule-packer, 
refugee  Cuban,  correspondent,  nurse,  doctor, 
surgeon — the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  battle 
of  the  day. 

The  moon  rose. 

"  Water!  water!  water!  " 

Crittenden  could  not  move.  He  could  see 
the  lights  in  the  tents;  the  half -naked  fig 
ures  stretched  on  tables;  and  doctors  with 
bloody  arms  about  them — cutting  and  band 
aging — one  with  his  hands  inside  a  man's 
stomach,  working  and  kneading  the  bowels 
as  though  they  were  dough.  Now  and  then 
four  negro  troopers  would  appear  with  some 
thing  in  a  blanket,  would  walk  around  the  tent 
where  there  was  a  long  trench,  and,  stand 
ing  at  the  head  of  this,  two  would  lift  up 
their  ends  of  the  blanket  and  the  other  two 
would  let  go,  and  a  shapeless  shape  would 
drop  into  the  trench.  Up  and  down  near  by 
strolled  two  young  lieutenants,  smoking  ciga 
rettes — calmly,  carelessly.  He  could  see  all 
this,  but  that  was  all  right;  that  was  all 
right!  Everything  was  all  right  except  that 
206 


Crittenden 

long,  black  shape  in  the  shadow  near  him 
gasping: 

"  "Water!  water!  water!  " 

He  could  not  stand  that  hoarse,  rasping 
whisper  much  longer.  His  canteen  he  had 
clung  to — the  regular  had  taught  him.  that 
— and  he  tried  again  to  move.  A  thousand 
needles  shot  through  him  —  every  one,  it 
seemed,  passing  through  a  nerve-centre  and 
back  the  same  path  again.  He  heard  his  own 
teeth  crunch  as  he  had  often  heard  the  teeth 
of  a  drunken  man  crunch,  and  then  he  became 
unconscious.  When  he  came  to,  the  man  was 
still  muttering ;  but  this  time  it  was  a  woman's 
name,  and  Crittenden  lay  still.  Good  God! 

"Judith — Judith — Judith!"  each  time 
more  faintly  still.  There  were  other  Judiths 
in  the  world,  but  the  voice — he  knew  the 
voice — somewhere  he  had  heard  it.  The  moon 
was  coming;  it  had  crossed  the  other  man's 
feet  and  was  creeping  up  his  twisted  body.  It 
would  reach  his  face  in  time,  and,  if  he  could 
keep  from  fainting  again,  he  would  see. 

"  Water!  water!  water!  " 

Why  did  not  someone  answer?  Crittenden 
called  and  called  and  called ;  but  he  could  little 
more  than  whisper.  The  man  would  die  and 
207 


Crittenden 

be  thrown  into  that  trench;  or  lie  might,  and 
never  know !  He  raised  himself  on  one  elbow 
again  and  dragged  his  quivering  body  after  it ; 
he  clinched  his  teeth;  he  could  hear  them 
crunching  again;  he  was  near  him  now;  he 
would  not  faint;  and  then  the  blood  gushed 
from  his  mouth  and  he  felt  the  darkness  com 
ing  again,  and  again  he  heard: 

"Judith— Judith!" 

Then  there  were  footsteps  near  him  and  a 
voice — a  careless  voice : 

"  He's  gone." 

He  felt  himself  caught,  and  turned  over;  a 
hand  was  put  to  his  heart  for  a  moment  and 
the  same  voice: 

"  Bring  in  that  other  man;  no  use  fooling 
with  this  one." 

When  the  light  came  back  to  him  again,  he 
turned  his  head  feebly.  The  shape  was  still 
there,  but  the  moonlight  had  risen  to  the  dead 
man's  breast  and  glittered  on  the  edge  of  some 
thing  that  was  clinched  in  his  right  hand.  It 
was  a  miniature,  and  Crittenden  stared  at  it- 
unwinking — stared  and  stared  while  it  slowly 
came  into  the  strong,  white  light.  It  looked 
like  the  face  of  Judith.  It  wasn't,  of  course, 
but  he  dragged  himself  slowly,  slowly  closer. 
208 


Crittenden 

It  was  Judith — Judith  as  he  had  known  her 
years  ago.  He  must  see  now;  he  must  see 
now,  and  he  dragged  himself  on  and  up  until 
his  eyes  bent  over  the  dead  man's  face.  He 
fell  back  then,  and  painfully  edged  himself 
away,  shuddering. 

"  Blackf ord !     Judith !     Blackf ord !  " 
He  was  face  to  face  with  the  man  he  had 
longed  so  many  years  to  see;  he  was  face  to 
face  at  last  with  him — dead. 

As  he  lay  there,  his  mood  changed  and  soft 
ened  and  a  curious  pity  filled  him  through 
and  through.  And  presently  he  reached  out 
with  his  left  hand  and  closed  the  dead  man's 
eyes  and  drew  his  right  arm  to  his  side,  and 
with  his  left  foot  he  straightened  the  dead 
man's  right  leg.  The  face  was  in  clear  view 
presently — the  handsome,  daredevil  face — 
strangely  shorn  of  its  evil  lines  now  by  the 
master-sculptor  of  the  spirit — Death.  Peace 
was  come  to  the  face  now;  peace  to  the  turbu 
lent  spirit;  peace  to  the  man  whose  heart  was 
pure  and  whose  blood  was  tainted;  who  had 
lived  ever  in  the  light  of  a  baleful  star.  He 
had  loved,  and  he  had  been  faithful  to  the 
end;  and  such  a  fate  might  have  been  his — as 
justly — God  knew. 

209 


Crittenden 

Footsteps  approached  again  and  Crittenden 
turned  his  head. 

"Why,  he  isn't  dead!" 

It  was  Willings,  the  surgeon  he  had  known 
at  Chickaniauga,  and  Crittenden  called  him 
by  name. 

"  ISTo,  I'm  not  dead — I'm  not  going  to  die." 

Willings  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Well,  there's  grit  for  you,"  said  the  other 
surgeon.  "  We'll  take  him  next." 

"  Straighten  him  out  there,  won't  you?  " 
said  Crittenden,  gently,  as  the  two  men 
stooped  for  him. 

"  Don't  put  him  in  there,  please,"  nodding 
toward  the  trench  behind  the  tents;  "  and 
mark  his  grave,  won't  you,  Doctor?  He's  my 
bunkie." 

"  All  right,"  said  Willings,  kindly. 

"  And,  Doctor,  give  me  that — what  he  has 
in  his  hand,  please.  I  know  her." 


A  tent  at  Siboney  in  the  fever-camp  over 
looking  the  sea. 

"Judith!     Judith!     Judith!" 

The  doctor  pointed  to  the  sick  man's  name. 

"  Answer  him? " 


Crittenden 

But  the  nurse  would  not  call  his  name. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  gently;  and  she  put 
one  hand  on  his  forehead  and  the  other  on  the 
hand  that  was  clinched  on  his  breast.  Slowly 
his  hand  loosened  and  clasped  hers  tight,  and 
Crittenden  passed,  by  and  by,  into  sleep. 
The  doctor  looked  at  him  closely. 

He  had  just  made  the  rounds  of  the  tents 
outside,  and  he  was  marvelling.  There  were 
men  who  had  fought  bravely,  who  had  stood 
wounds  and  the  surgeon's  knife  without  a 
murmur;  who,  weakened  and  demoralized  by 
fever  now,  were  weak  and  puling  of  spirit,  and 
sly  and  thievish;  who  would  steal  the  food  of 
the  very  comrades  for  whom  a  little  while  be 
fore  they  had  risked  their  lives — men  who  in 
a  fortnight  had  fallen  from  a  high  plane  of 
life  to  the  pitiful  level  of  brutes.  Only  here 
and  there  was  an  exception.  This  man,  Crit 
tenden,  was  one.  When  sane,  he  was  gentle, 
uncomplaining,  considerate.  Delirious,  there 
was  never  a  plaint  in  his  voice;  never  a  word 
passed  his  lips  that  his  own  mother  might  not 
hear;  and  when  his  lips  closed,  an  undaunted 
spirit  kept  them  firm. 

"Aren't  you  tired?" 

The  nurse  shook  her  head. 


Crittenden 

"  Then  yon  luul  better  stay  when1  you  an-; 
his  cast-  is  pretty  serious.  I'll  do  your  work 
for  you." 

Tin-  nurse  nodded  and  smiled.  She  was 
tired  and  worn  to  death,  but  she  sat  as  she  was 
till  dawn  eatne  over  the  sea,  for  the  sake  of  the 
1','irl,  whose  fresh  vouuj^  faee  she  saw  above 
tho  sick  man's  heart.  And  she  knew  from 
the  faee  that  the  other  woman  would  have 
watehed  just  that  way  for  her. 


XIII 

Tin;  tliuii'lcr  of  big  guns,  Cervera'a  doom, 
and  truce  at  the  trenches.  A  trying  week  of 
hot,  nun,  cool  nightn,  tropical  rains,  and  fevern. 
Then  a  harmless  little  bombardment  one  Sun 
day  afternoon  that,  befitted  the  day;  another 
week  of  heat  and  fold  and  wet,  and  eicktlCSS. 
After  that,  the  .sni-reoder  and  the  fien-e  lit,tl(! 
war  WUH  over. 

Meantime,  nifk  and  wounded  were  home 
ward  hound,  and  of  the  ( 'rittenderiH,  I»oh  was 
the  first  to  reach  Canewood.  He  came  in  one 
morning,  hungry  and  footsore,  hut  with  a 
HWUgger  of  importance  that,  he  had  well 
earned. 

He  had  left  liin  Young  <  'aptain  P.asil  at  Old 
I'oint,  Comfort,  he  Haid,  where  the  hoy,  not 
having  had  enough  of  war,  had  slipped  aboard 
a  transport  and  gone  oil'  with  the  Kentucky 
Legion  lor  I'orto  Uico  -  the  unhappy  Legion 
that,  had  fumed  all  .summer  at,  (  Miir kamauga — 
and  had  hoisted  sail  for  I'orto  Rico,  without 
daring  to  look  backward  for  fear  it  should  bo 
Wigwagged  hack  to  land  from  Washington. 
213 


Crittenden 

Was  Basil  well? 

"  Yas'm.  Young  Cap'n  didn'  min'  dat 
little  bullet  right  through  his  neck  no  mo'n  a 
fly-bite.  Xothin'  gwine  to  keep  dat  boy 
back." 

They  had  let  him  out  of  the  hospital,  or, 
rather,  he  had  gotten  out  by  dressing  himself 
when  his  doctor  was  not  there.  An  attendant 
tried  to  stop  him. 

"  An'  Young  Cap'n  he  jes  drew  hisself  up 
mighty  gran'  an'  says:  '  I'm  going  to  join  my 
regiment,'  he  says.  '  It  sails  to-morrow.'  But 
Ole  Cap'n  done  killed,"  Bob  reckoned; 
"  killed  on  top  of  the  hill  where  they  druv 
the  Spaniards  out  of  the  ditches  whar  they 
wus  shootin'  from." 

Mrs.  Crittenden  smiled. 

"  Xo,  Bob,  he's  coming  home  now,"  and 
Bob's  eyes  streamed.  "  You've  been  a  good 
boy,  Bob.  Come  here;  "  and  she  led  him 
into  the  hallway  and  told  him  to  wait,  while 
she  went  to  the  door  of  her  room  and  called 
someone. 

Molly  came  out  embarrassed,  twisting  a  cor 
ner  of  her  apron  and  putting  it  in  her  mouth 
while  she  walked  forward  and  awkwardly 
shook  hands. 

214 


Crittenden 

"  I  think  Molly  has  got  something  to  say  to 
you,  Bob.  You  can  go,  Molly,"  she  added, 
smiling. 

The  two  walked  toward  the  cabin,  the 
negroes  crowding  about  Bob  and  shaking  him 
by  the  hand  and  asking  a  thousand  absurd 
questions;  and  Bob,  while  he  was  affable,  wTas 
lordly  as  well,  and  one  or  two  of  Bob's  possible 
rivals  were  seen  to  sniff,  as  did  other  young 
field  hands,  though  Bob's  mammy  was,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  grinning  openly  with 
pride  in  her  "  chile,"  and  she  waved  the  curi 
ous  away  and  took  the  two  in  her  own  cabin, 
reappearing  presently  and  walking  toward 
the  kitchen. 

Bob  and  Molly  sat  down  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  fireplace,  Bob  triumphant  at  last,  and 
Molly  watching  him  furtively. 

"  I  believe  you  has  somethin'  to  say  to  me, 
Miss  Johnson,"  said  Bob,  loftily. 

"  Well,  I  sut'nly  is  glad  to  welcome  you 
home  ag'in,  Mistuh  Crittenden,"  said  Molly. 

"  Is  you? " 

Bob  was  quite  independent  now,  and  Molly 
began  to  weaken  slightly. 

"  An'  is  dat  all  you  got  to  say?  " 

"  Ole  Miss  said  I  must  tell  you  that  I  was 
215 


Crittenden 

mighty — mean — to — you — when  you  went — 
to — de  wah,  an'  that — I'm  sorry." 

"Well,  is  you  sorry?" 

Molly  was  silent. 

"  Quit  yo'  foolin',  gal;  quit  yo'  foolin'." 

In  a  moment  Bob  was  by  her  side,  and  with 
his  arm  around  her;  and  Molly  rose  to  her  feet 
with  an  ineffectual  effort  to  unclasp  his  hands. 

"  Quit  yo'  foolin' !  " 

Bob's  strong  arms  began  to  tighten,  and  the 
girl  in  a  moment  turned  and  gave  way  into  his 
arms,  and  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  be 
gan  to  cry.  But  Bob  knew  what  sort  of  tears 
they  were,  and  he  was  as  gentle  as  though  his 
skin  had  been  as  white  as  was  his  heart. 


And  Crittenden  was  coining  home — Color- 
Sergeant  Crittenden,  who  had  got  out  of  the 
hospital  and  back  to  the  trenches  just  in  time 
to  receive  flag  and  chevrons  on  the  very  day  of 
the  surrender — only  to  fall  ill  of  the  fever  and 
go  back  to  the  hospital  that  same  day.  There 
was  Tampa  once  more — the  great  hotel,  the 
streets,  silent  and  deserted,  except  for  the  oc 
casional  officer  that  rode  or  marched  the  deep 
dust  of  the  town,  and  the  other  soldiers,  reg- 
216 


Crittenden 

ulars  and  volunteers,  who  bad  suffered  the  dis 
appointment,  the  heat,  sickness,  and  hardship 
of  war  with  little  credit  from  the  nation  at 
large,  and  no  reward,  such  even  as  a  like  fidel 
ity  in  any  path  of  peace  would  have  brought 
them. 

Half  out  of  his  head,  weak  and  feverish, 
Crittenden  climbed  into  the  dusty  train  and 
was  whirled  through  the  dusty  town,  out 
through  dry  marshes  and  dusty  woods  and 
dusty,  cheerless,  dead-flowered  fields,  but  with 
an  exhilaration  that  made  his  temple  throb 
like  a  woman's. 

Up  through  the  blistered,  sandy,  piney  low 
lands;  through  Chickamauga  again,  full  of 
volunteers  who,  too,  had  suffered  and  risked 
all  the  ills  of  the  war  without  one  thrill  of 
compensation;  and  on  again,  until  he  was 
once  more  on  the  edge  of  the  Bluegrass,  with 
birds  singing  the  sun  down;  and  again  the 
world  for  him  was  changed — from  nervous 
exaltation  to  an  air  of  balm  and  peace;  from 
grim  hills  to  the  rolling  sweep  of  low,  brown 
slopes;  from  giant-poplar  to  broad  oak  and 
sugar-tree;  from  log-cabin  to  homestead  of 
brick  and  stone.  And  so,  from  mountain  of 
Cuba  and  mountain  of  his  own  land,  Critten- 


Crittenden 

den  once  more  passed  home.  It  bad  been 
green  spring  for  tbe  eartb  when  be  left,  but 
autumn  in  bis  beart.  Xow  autumn  lay  over 
tbe  eartb,  but  in  bis  beart  was  spring. 

As  be  glanced  out  of  tbe  window,  be  could 
see  a  great  crowd  about  tbe  station.  A  brass 
band  was  standing  in  front  of  tbe  station-door 
— some  boliday  excursion  was  on  foot,  be 
tbougbt.  As  be  stepped  on  tbe  platform,  a 
great  cbeer  was  raised  and  a  dozen  men  swept 
toward  bim,  friends,  personal  and  political, 
but  wben  they  saw  bim  pale,  thin,  lean-faced, 
feverish,  dull-eyed,  tbe  cheers  stopped  and  two 
powerful  fellows  took  him  by  tbe  arms  and 
half  carried  him  to  the  station-door,  where 
were  waiting  his  mother — and  little  Phyllis. 

When  they  came  out  again  to  the  carriage, 
the  band  started  "  Johnny  Comes  Marching 
Home  Again,"  and  Crittenden  asked  feebly: 

"  What  does  all  this  mean?  " 

Phyllis  laughed  through  her  tears. 

"  That's  for  you." 

Crittendeu's  brow  wrinkled  in  a  pathetic 
effort  to  collect  bis  thoughts ;  but  be  gave  it 
up  and  looked  at  bis  mother  with  an  unspoken 
question  on  his  lips.  His  mother  smiled  mere 
ly,  and  Crittenden  wondered  why  ;  but  sorne- 
218 


Crittenden 

how  he  was  not  particularly  curious — he  was 
not  particularly  concerned  about  anything. 
In  fact,  he  was  getting  weaker,  and  the  excite 
ment  at  the  station  was  bringing  on  the  fever 
again.  Half  the  time  his  eyes  were  closed, 
and  when  he  opened  them  on  the  swiftly  pass 
ing  autumn  fields,  his  gaze  was  listless.  Once 
he  muttered  several  times,  as  though  he  were 
out  of  his  head;  and  when  they  drove  into  the 
yard,  his  face  was  turning  blue  at  the  lips  and 
his  teeth  began  to  chatter.  Close  behind 
came  the  doctor's  buggy. 

Crittenden  climbed  out  slowly  and  slowly 
mounted  the  stiles.  On  the  top  step  he  sat 
down,  looking  at  the  old  homestead  and  the 
barn  and  the  stubble  wheat-fields  beyond,  and 
at  the  servants  coming  from  the  quarters  to 
welcome  him,  while  his  mother  stood  watch 
ing  and  fondly  humoring  him. 

"  Uncle  Ephrairn,"  he  said  to  a  respectful 
old  white-haired  man,  "  where's  my  buggy?  " 

"  Right  where  you  left  it,  suh." 

"  Well,  hitch  up —  Raincrow,  he  was 
about  to  say,  and  then  he  remembered  that 
Raincrow  was  dead.  "  Have  you  got  any 
thing  to  drive?  " 

"  Yessuh;  we  got  Mr.  Basil's  little  mare." 
219 


Crittenden 

"Hitch  her  up  to  my  buggy,  then,  right 
away.  I  want  you  to  drive  me." 

The  old  darky  looked  puzzled,  but  Mrs. 
Crittenden,  still  with  the  idea  of  humoring 
him,  nodded  for  him  to  obey,  and  the  old 
man  turned  toward  the  stable. 

"  Yessuh — right  away,  suh." 

"  Where's  Basil,  mother?  " 

Phyllis  turned  her  face  quickly. 

"  He'll  be  here  soon,"  said  his  mother,  with 
a  smile. 

The  doctor  looked  at  his  flushed  face. 

"  Come  on,  my  boy,"  he  said,  firmly. 
"  You  must  get  out  of  the  sun." 

Crittenden  shook  his  head. 

"  Mother,  have  I  ever  done  anything  that 
you  asked  me  not  to  do?  " 

"  No,  my  son." 

"  Please  don't  make  me  begin  now,"  he 
said,  gently.  "  Is — is  she  at  home?  " 

"  Yes;  but  she  is  not  very  well.  She  has 
been  ill  a  long  while,"  she  added,  but  she  did 
not  tell  him  that  Judith  had  been  nursing  at 
Tampa,  and  that  she  had  been  sent  home, 
stricken  with  fever. 

The  doctor  had  been  counting  his  pulse,  and 
now,  with  a  grave  look,  pulled  a  thermometer 


Crittenden 

from  his  pocket;  but  Crittenden  waved  him 
away. 

"  ~Not  jet,  Doctor;  not  yet,"  he  said,  and 
stopped  a  moment  to  control  his  voice  before 
he  went  on. 

"  I  know  what's  the  matter  better  than  you 
do.  I'm  going  to  have  the  fever  again;  but 
I've  got  something  to  do  before  I  go  to  bed,  or 
I'll  never  get  up  again.  I  have  come  up  from 
Tampa  just  this  way,  and  I  can  go  on  like 
this  for  two  more  hours;  and  I'm  going." 

The  doctor  started  to  speak,  but  Mrs.  Crit 
tenden  shook  her  head  at  him,  and  Phyllis's 
face,  too,  was  pleading  for  him. 

"  Mother,  I'll  be  back  in  two  hours,  and 
then  I'll  do  just  what  you  and  the  doctor  say; 
but  not  now." 


Judith  sat  bare-headed  on  the  porch  with  a 
white  shawl  drawn  closely  about  her  neck  and 
about  her  half-bare  arms.  Behind  her,  on  the 
floor  of  the  porch,  was,  where  she  had  thrown 
it,  a  paper  in  which  there  was  a  column  about 
the  home-coming  of  Crittenden — plain  Ser 
geant  Crittenden.  And  there  was  a  long  edi 
torial  comment,  full  of  national  spirit,  and  a 
221 


Crittenden 

plain  statement  to  the  effect  that  the  next 
vacant  seat  in  Congress  was  his  without  the 
asking. 

The  pike-gate  slammed — her  father  was 
getting  home  from  town.  The  buggy  coming 
over  the  turf  made  her  think  what  a  change 
a  few  months  had  brought  to  Crittenden  and 
to  her;  of  the  ride  home  with  him  the  previous 
spring;  and  what  she  rarely  allowed  herself, 
she  thought  of  the  night  of  their  parting  and 
the  warm  color  came  to  her  cheeks.  He  had 
never  sent  her  a  line,  of  course.  The  matter 
would  never  be  mentioned — it  couldn't  be.  It 
struck  her  while  she  was  listening  to  the  com 
ing  of  the  feet  on  the  turf  that  they  were  much 
swifter  than  her  father's  steady-going  old 
buggy-horse.  The  click  was  different;  and 
when  the  buggy,  instead  of  turning  toward 
the  stable,  came  straight  for  the  stiles,  her 
heart  quickened  and  she  raised  her  head.  She 
heard  acutely  the  creak  of  the  springs  as  some 
one  stepped  to  the  ground,  and  then,  without 
waiting  to  tie  his  horse,  stepped  slowly  over 
the  stiles.  Unconsciously  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
not  knowing  what  to  think — to  do.  And  then 
she  saw  that  the  man  wore  a  slouch  hat,  that 
his  coat  was  off,  and  that  a  huge  pistol  was 
222 


Crittenden 

buckled  around  him,  and  she  turned  for  the 
door  in  alarm. 

"Judith!" 

The  voice  was  weak,  and  she  did  not  know 
it;  but  in  a  moment  the  light  from  the  lamp 
in  the  hallway  fell  upon  a  bare-headed,  gaunt- 
featured  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  common  sol 
dier. 

"Judith!" 

This  time  the  voice  broke  a  little,  and  for  a 
moment  Judith  stood  speechless — still — una 
ble  to  believe  that  the  wreck  before  her  was 
Crittenden.  His  face  and  eyes  were  on  fire — 
the  fire  of  fever — she  could  not  know  that; 
and  he  was  trembling  and  looked  hardly  able 
to  stand. 

"  I've  come,  Judith,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't 
known  what  to  do,  and  I've  come  to  tell  you — 
to — ask— 

He  was  searching  her  face  anxiously,  and 
he  stopped  suddenly  and  passed  one  hand 
across  his  eyes,  as  though  he  were  trying 
to  recall  something.  The  girl  had  drawn 
herself  slowly  upward  until  the  honeysuckle 
above  her  head  touched  her  hair,  and  her 
face,  that  had  been  so  full  of  aching  pity 
for  him  that  in  another  moment  she  must 
223 


Crittenden 

have  gone  and  put  her  arms  about  him,  took 
on  a  sudden,  hard  quiet;  and  the  lone  an 
guish  of  the  summer  came  out  suddenly 
in  her  trembling  lip  and  the  whiteness  of 
her  face. 

"  To  ask  for  forgiveness,"  he  might  have 
said ;  but  his  instinct  swerved  him ;  and — 

"  For  mercy,  Judith,"  he  would  have  said, 
but  the  look  of  her  face  stopped  the  words  in 
an  unheard  whisper;  and  he  stooped  slowly, 
feeling  carefully  for  a  step,  and  letting  him 
self  weakly  down  in  a  way  that  almost  un 
nerved  her  again;  but  he  had  begun  to  talk 
now,  quietly  and  evenly,  and  without  looking 
up  at  her. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stay  long.  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  worry  you.  I'll  go  away  in  just  a  mo 
ment;  but  I  had  to  come;  I  had  to  come. 
I've  been  a  little  sick,  and  I  believe  I've  not 
quite  got  over  the  fever  yet;  but  I  couldn't 
go  through  it  again  without  seeing  you.  I 
know  that,  and  that's — why — I've — come. 
It  isn't  the  fever.  Oh,  no;  I'm  not  sick  at 
all,  I'm  very  well,  thank  you— 

He  was  getting  incoherent,  and  he  knew  it, 
and  stopped  a  moment. 

"  It's  you,  Judith " 

224 


Crittenden 

He  stopped  again,  and  with  a  painful  effort 
went  on  slowly— slowly  and  quietly,  and  the 
girl,  without  a  word,  stood  still,  looking  down 
at  him. 

"  I  —  used  —  to  —  think  —  that  --  I  - 
loved  —  you.  I  —  used  —  to  —  think  I  was 
-  a  —  man.  I  didn't  know  what  love  was, 
and  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  to  be  a  man. 
I  know  both  now,  thank  God,  and  learning 
each  has  helped  me  to  learn  the  other.  If  I 
killed  all  your  feeling  for  me,  I  deserve  the 
loss;  but  you  must  have  known,  Judith,  that 
I  was  not  myself  that  night.  You  did  know. 
Your  instinct  told  you  the  truth;  you — knew 
— I  loved — you — then — and  that's  why — 
that's  why — you — God  bless  you — said — 
what — you — did.  To  think  that  I  should  ever 
dare  to  open  my  lips  again !  but  I  can't  help  it ; 
I  can't  help  it.  I  was  crazy,  Judith — crazy — 
and  I  am  now;  but  it  didn't  go  and  then  come 
back.  It  never  went  at  all,  as  I  found  out,  go 
ing  dowTn  to  Cuba — and  yes,  it  did  come  back; 
but  it  was  a  thousand  times  higher  and  better 
love  than  it  had  ever  been,  for  everything 
came  back  and  I  was  a  better  man.  I  have  seen 
nothing  but  your  face  all  the  time — nothing' 
— nothing,  all  the  time  I've  been  gone;  and 
225 


Crittenden 

I  couldn't  rest  or  sleep — I  couldn't  even  die, 
Judith,  until  I  had  come  to  tell  you  that  I 
never  knew  a  man  could  love  a  woman  as — 
I — love — you — Judith.  I— 

He  rose  very  slowly,  turned,  and  as  he 
passed  from  the  light,  his  weakness  got  the 
better  of  him  for  the  first  time,  because  of  his 
wounds  and  sickness,  and  his  voice  broke  in  a 
half  sob — the  sob  that  is  so  terrible  to  a 
woman's  ears;  and  she  saw  him  clinch  his 
arms  fiercely  around  his  breast  to  stifle  it. 


It  was  the  old  story  that  night — the  story 
of  the  summer's  heat  and  horror  and  suffering 
• — heard  and  seen,  and  keenly  felt  in  his  delir 
ium:  the  dusty,  grimy  days  of  drill  on  the 
hot  sands  of  Tampa;  the  long,  long,  hot  wait 
on  the  transport  in  the  harbor;  the  stuffy,  ill- 
smelling  breath  of  the  hold,  when  the  wind 
was  wrong;  the  march  along  the  coast  and  the 
grewsome  life  over  and  around  him — buzzard 
and  strange  bird  in  the  air,  and  crab  arid  snail 
and  lizard  and  scorpion  and  hairy  tarantula 
scuttling  through  the  tropical  green  rushes 
along  the  path.  And  the  hunger  and  thirst 
and  heat  and  dirt  and  rolling  sweat  of  the  last 
226 


Crittenden 

day's  march  and  every  detail  of  the  day's 
fight;  the  stench  of  dead  horse  and  dead  man; 
the  shriek  of  shell  and  rattle  of  musketry 
and  yell  of  officer;  the  slow  rush  through 
the  long  grass,  and  the  climb  up  the  hill.  And 
always,  he  was  tramping,  tramping,  tramping 
through  long,  green,  thick  grass.  Sometimes 
a  kaleidoscope  series  of  pictures  would  go 
jumbling  through  his  brain,  as  though  some 
imp  were  unrolling  the  scroll  of  his  brain 
backward,  forward,  and  sidewise;  a  whirling 
cloud  of  sand,  a  driving  sheet  of  visible  bul 
lets;  a  hose-pipe  that  shot  streams  of  melted 
steel;  a  forest  of  smoke-stacks;  the  flash  of 
trailing  phosphorescent  foam ;  a  clear  sky,  full 
of  stars  —  the  mountains  clear  and  radiant 
through  sunlit  vapors;  camp-fires  shooting 
flames  into  the  darkness,  and  men  and  guns 
moving  past  them.  Through  it  all  he  could 
feel  his  legs  moving  and  his  feet  tramping, 
tramping,  tramping  through  long  green  grass. 
Sometimes  he  was  tramping  toward  the  figure 
of  a  woman,  whose  face  looked  like  Judith's; 
and  tramp  as  he  could,  he  could  never  get  close 
enough  through  that  grass  to  know  whether 
it  was  Judith  or  not.  But  usually  it  was  a  hill 
that  he  was  tramping  toward,  and  then  his 
227 


Crittenden 

foothold  was  good;  and  while  he  went  slowly 
he  got  forward  and  he  reached  the  hill,  and  he 
climbed  it  to  a  queer-looking  little  block-house 
on  top,  from  which  queer-looking  little  blue 
men  were  running.  And  now  and  then  one 
would  drop  and  not  get  up  again.  And  by 
and  by  came  his  time  to  drop.  Then  he  would 
begin  all  over  again,  or  he  would  go  back  to 
the  coast,  which  he  preferred  to  do,  in  spite 
of  his  aching  wound,  and  the  long  wait  in  the 
hospital  and  the  place  where  poor  Reynolds 
was  tossed  into  the  air  and  into  fragments  by 
a  shell;  in  spite  of  the  long  walk  back  to 
Siboney;  the  graves  of  the  Rough  Riders  and 
the  scuttling  land-crabs ;  and  the  heat  and  the 
smells.  Then  he  would  march  back  again  to 
the  trenches  in  his  dream,  as  he  had  done  in 
Cuba  when  he  got  out  of  the  hospital.  There 
was  the  hill  up  which  he  had  charged.  It 
looked  like  the  abode  of  cave-dwellers — so 
burrowed  was  it  with  bomb-proofs.  He  could 
hear  the  shouts  of  welcome  as  his  comrades 
and  men,  who  had  never  spoken  to  him  be 
fore,  crowded  about  him. 

How  often  he  lived  through  that  last  proud 
little  drama  of  his  soldier  life !     There  was  his 
Captain  wounded,  and  there  was  the  old  Ser- 
228 


Crittenden 

geant — the  "  Governor  "-—with  chevrons  and 
a  flag. 

"  You're  a  Sergeant,  Crittenden,"  said  the 
Captain. 

He,  Crittenden,  in  blood  and  sympathy  the 
spirit  of  secession — bearer  now  of  the  Stars 
and  Stripes!  How  his  heart  thumped,  and 
how  his  head  reeled  when  he  caught  the  staff 
and  looked  dumbly  up  to  the  folds;  and  in 
spite  of  all  his  self-control,  the  tears  came,  as 
they  came  again  and  again  in  his  delirium. 

Eight  at  that  moment  there  was  a  great  bus 
tle  in  camp.  And  still  holding  that  flag,  Crit 
tenden  marched  with  his  company  up  to  the 
trenches.  There  was  the  army  drawn  up  at 
parade,  in  a  great  ten-mile  half-circle  and  fac 
ing  Santiago.  There  were  the  red  roofs  of 
the  town,  and  the  batteries,  which  were  to 
thunder  word  when  the  red  and  yellow  flag  of 
defeat  went  down  and  the  victorious  Stars  and 
Stripes  rose  up.  There  were  little  men  in 
straw  hats  and  blue  clothes,  coming  from  San 
tiago,  and  swinging  hammocks  and  tethering 
horses  in  an  open  field,  while  more  little  men 
in  Panama  hats  were  advancing  on  the  Amer 
ican  trenches,  saluting  courteously.  And 
there  were  American  officers  jumping  across 
229 


Crittenden 

the  trenches  to  meet  them,  and  while  they  were 
shaking  hands,  on  the  very  stroke  of  twelve, 
there  came  thunder — the  thunder  of  two-score 
and  one  salutes.  And  the  cheers — the  cheers ! 
From  the  right  rose  those  cheers,  gathering 
volume  as  they  came,  swinging  through  the 
centre  far  to  the  left,  and  swinging  through 
the  centre  back  again,  until  they  broke  in  a 
wild  storm  against  the  big,  green  hills.  A 
storm  that  ran  down  the  foothills  to  the  rear, 
was  mingled  with  the  surf  at  Siboney  and 
swung  by  the  rocking  transports  out  to  sea. 
Under  the  sea,  too,  it  sang,  along  the  cables, 
to  ring  on  through  the  white  corridors  of  the 
great  capitol  and  spread  like  a  hurricane 
throughout  all  the  waiting  land  at  home! 
Then  he  could  hear  bands  playing — playing 
the  "  Star-Spangled  Banner  " — and  the  sol 
diers  cheering  and  cheering  again.  Sud 
denly  there  was  quiet;  the  bands  were  play 
ing  hymns — old,  old  hymns  that  the  soldier 
had  heard  with  bowed  head  at  his  mother's 
knee,  or  in  some  little  old  country  church 
at  home  —  and  what  hardships,  privations, 
wounds,  death  of  comrades  had  rarely  done, 
those  old  hymns  did  now — they  brought  tears. 
Then  some  thoughtful  soldier  pulled  a  box 
230 


Crittenden 

of  hardtack  across  the  trenches  and  the  little 
Spanish  soldiers  fell  upon  it  like  school-boys 
and  scrambled  like  pickaninnies  for  a  penny. 

Thus  it  was  that  day  all  around  the  shining 
circle  of  sheathed  bayonets,  silent  carbines, 
and  dumb  cannon-mouths  at  the  American 
trenches  around  Santiago,  where  the  fighting 
was  done. 

And  on  a  little  knoll  not  far  away  stood 
Sergeant  Crittenden,  swaying  on  his  feet — 
color-sergeant  to  the  folds  of  the  ever-victori 
ous,  ever-beloved  Old  Glory  waving  over  him, 
with  a  strange  new  wave  of  feeling  surging 
through  him.  For  then  and  there,  Crittenden, 
Southerner,  died  straightway  and  through  a 
travail  of  wounds,  suffering,  sickness,  devo 
tion,  and  love  for  that  flag  —  Crittenden, 
American,  was  born.  And  just  at  that  proud 
moment,  he  would  feel  once  more  the  dizzi 
ness  seize  him.  The  world  would  turn  dark, 
and  again  he  would  sink  slowly. 

And  again,  when  all  this  was  over,  the 
sick  man  would  go  back  to  the  long  grass  and 
tramp  it  once  more  until  his  legs  ached  and  his 
brain  swam.  And  when  it  was  the  hill  that 
he  could  see,  he  was  quiet  and  got  rest  for  a 
while ;  and  when  it  was  the  figure  of  Judith — 
231 


Crittenden 

he  knew  now  that  it  was  Judith — he  would 
call  aloud  for  her,  just  as  he  did  in  the  hos 
pital  at  Siboney.  And  always  the  tramp 
through  the  long  grass  would  begin  again — 

Tramp — tramp — tramp. 

He  was  very  tired,  but  there  was  the  long 
grass  ahead  of  him,  and  he  must  get  through  it 
somehow. 

Tramp — tramp — tramp. 


232 


XIV 

AUTUMN  came  and  the  Legion  was  coming 
home — Basil  was  coming  home.  And  Phyl 
lis  was  for  one  hour  haughty  and  unforgiving 
over  what  she  called  his  shameful  neglect  and, 
for  another,  in  a  fever  of  unrest  to  see  him. 
No,  she  was  not  going  to  meet  him.  She  would 
wait  for  him  at  her  own  home,  and  he  could 
come  to  her  there  with  the  honors  of  war  on 
his  brow  and  plead  on  bended  knee  to  be  for 
given.  At  least  that  was  the  picture  that  she 
sometimes  surprised  in  her  own  mind,  though 
she  did  not  want  Basil  kneeling  to  anybody — 
not  even  to  her. 

The  town  made  ready,  and  the  spirit  of 
welcome  for  the  home-coming  was  oddly  like 
the  spirit  of  God-speed  that  had  followed  them 
six  months  before ;  only  there  were  more  smil 
ing  faces,  more  and  madder  cheers,  and  as 
many  tears,  but  this  time  they  were  tears  of 
joy.  For  many  a  mother  and  daughter  who 
did  not  weep  when  father  and  brother  went 
233 


Crittenden 

away,  wept  now,  that  they  were  coming  home 
again.  They  had  run  the  risk  of  fever  and 
sickness,  the  real  terrors  of  war.  God  knew 
they  had  done  their  best  to  get  to  the  front, 
and  the  people  knew  what  account  they  would 
have  given  of  themselves  had  they  gotten  their 
chance  at  war.  They  had  had  all  the  hard 
ship — the  long,  long  hardship  without  the  one 
moment  of  recompense  that  was  the  soldier's 
reward  and  his  sole  opportunity  for  death  or 
glory.  So  the  people  gave  them  all  the  de 
served  honor  that  they  would  have  given  had 
they  stormed  San  Juan  or  the  stone  fort  at 
Caney.  The  change  that  even  in  that  short 
time  was  wrought  in  the  regiment,  everybody 
saw;  but  only  the  old  ex-Confederates  and 
Federals  on  the  street  knew  the  steady,  vet 
eran-like  swing  of  the  march  and  felt  the  solid 
unity  of  form  and  spirit  that  those  few  months 
had  brought  to  the  tanned  youths  who 
marched  now  like  soldiers  indeed.  And  next 
the  Colonel  rode  the  hero  of  the  regiment,  who 
had  got  to  Cuba,  who  had  stormed  the  hill, 
and  who  had  met  a  Spanish  bullet  face  to  face 
and  come  off  conqueror — Basil,  sitting  his 
horse  as  only  the  Southerner,  born  to  the  sad 
dle,  can.  How  they  cheered  him,  and  how 
234 


Crittenden 

the  gallant,  generous  old  Colonel  nodded  and 
bowed,  as  though  to  say: 

"  That's  right ;  that's  right.  Give  it  to 
him !  give  it  to  him !  " 

Phyllis — her  mother  and  Basil's  mother  be 
ing  present — shook  hands  merely  with  Basil 
when  she  saw  him  first  at  the  old  woodland, 
and  Basil  blushed  like  a  girl.  They  fell  be 
hind  as  the  older  people  walked  toward  the 
auditorium,  and  Basil  managed  to  get  hold  of 
her  hand,  but  she  pulled  it  away  rather  haugh 
tily.  She  was  looking  at  him  very  reproach 
fully,  a  moment  later,  when  her  eyes  became 
suddenly  fixed  to  the  neck  of  his  blouse,  and 
filled  with  tears.  She  began  to  cry  softly. 

"  Why,  Phyllis." 

Phyllis  was  giving  way,  and,  thereupon, 
with  her  own  mother  and  Basil's  mother  look 
ing  on,  and  to  Basil's  blushing  consternation, 
she  darted  for  his  neck-band  and  kissed  him 
on  the  throat.  The  throat  flushed,  and  in  the 
flush  a  tiny  wrhite  spot  showed — the  mouth  of 
a  tiny  wound  where  a  Mauser  bullet  had 
hissed  straight  through. 

Then  the  old  auditorium  again,  and  Crit 
tenden,  who  had  welcomed  the  Legion  to  camp 
at  Ashland,  was  out  of  bed,  against  the  doc- 
235 


Crittenden 

tor's  advice,  to  welcome  it  to  home  and  fire 
side.  And  when  he  faced  the  crowd — if  they 
cheered  Basil,  what  did  they  do  now?  He 
was  startled  by  the  roar  that  broke  against  the 
roof.  As  he  stood  there,  still  pale,  erect, 
modest,  two  pairs  of  eyes  saw  what  no  other 
eyes  saw,  two  minds  were  thinking  what  none 
others  were — the  mother  and  Judith  Page. 
Others  saw  him  as  the  soldier,  the  generous 
brother,  the  returned  hero.  These  two  looked 
deeper  and  saw  the  new  man  who  had  been 
forged  from  dross  by  the  fire  of  battle  and 
fever  and  the  fire  of  love.  There  was  much 
humility  in  the  face,  a  new  fire  in  the  eyes,  a 
nobler  bearing — and  his  bearing  had  always 
been  proud — a  nobler  sincerity,  a  nobler  pur 
pose. 

He  spoke  not  a  word  of  himself — not  a 
word  of  the  sickness  through  which  he  had 
passed.  It  was  of  the  long  patience  and  the 
patriotism  of  the  American  soldier,  the  hard 
ship  of  camp  life,  the  body-wearing  travail  of 
the  march  in  tropical  heat.  And  then  he 
paid  his  tribute  to  the  regular.  There  was 
no  danger  of  the  volunteer  failing  to  get  credit 
for  what  he  had  done,  but  the  regular — there 
was  no  one  to  speak  for  him  in  camp,  on  the 
236 


Crittenden 

transports,  on  the  march,  in  tropical  heat,  and 
on  the  battle-field.  He  had  seen  the  regular 
hungry,  wet,  sick,  but  fighting  still;  and  he 
had  seen  him  wounded,  dying,  dead,  and  never 
had  he  kno\vn  anything  but  perfect  kindness 
from  one  to  the  other ;  perfect  courtesy  to  out 
sider;  perfect  devotion  to  officer,  and  never  a 
word  of  complaint — never  one  word  of  com 
plaint. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  that  the  regular  who 
has  gone  will  not  open  his  lips  if  the  God  of 
Battles  tells  him  that  not  yet  has  he  earned 
eternal  peace." 

As  for  the  war  itself,  it  had  placed  the 
nation  high  among  the  seats  of  the  Mighty. 
It  had  increased  our  national  pride,  through 
unity,  a  thousand  fold.  It  would  show  to  the 
world  and  to  ourselves  that  the  heroic  mould 
in  which  the  sires  of  the  nation  were  cast  is 
still  casting  the  sons  of  to-day;  that  we  need 
not  fear  degeneracy  nor  dissolution  for  an 
other  hundred  years — smiling  as  he  said  this, 
as  though  the  dreams  of  Greece  and  Rome 
were  to  become  realities  here.  It  had  put  to 
rest  for  a  time  the  troublous  social  problems 
of  the  day;  it  had  brought  together  every 
social  element  in  our  national  life  —  coal- 
237 


Crittenden 

heaver  and  millionnaire,  student  and  cowboy, 
plain  man  and  gentleman,  regular  and  volun 
teer — had  brought  them  face  to  face  and 
taught  each  for  the  other  tolerance,  under 
standing,  sympathy,  high  regard;  and  had 
wheeled  all  into  a  solid  front  against  a  com 
mon  foe.  It  had  thus  not  only  brought  shoul 
der  to  shoulder  the  brothers  of  the  North  and 
South,  but  those  brothers  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  our  brothers  across  the  sea.  In  the  in 
terest  of  humanity,  it  had  freed  twelve  million 
people  of  an  alien  race  and  another  land,  and 
it  had  given  us  a  better  hope  for  the  alien 
race  in  our  own. 

And  who  knew  but  that,  up  where  France's 
great  statue  stood  at  the  wide-thrown  portals 
of  the  Great  City  of  the  land,  it  had  not  given 
to  the  mighty  torch  that  nightly  streams  the 
light  of  Liberty  across  the  waters  from  the 
New  World  to  the  Old — who  knew  that  it  had 
not  given  to  that  light  a  steady,  ever-onward- 
reaching  glow  that  some  day  should  illumine 
the  earth  ? 


The  Cuban  fever  does  not  loosen  its  clutch 
easily. 

238 


Crittenden 

Crittenden  went  to  bed  that  day  and  lay 
there  delirious  and  in  serious  danger  for  more 
than  a  fortnight.  But  at  the  end  a  reward 
came  for  all  the  ills  of  his  past  and  all  that 
could  ever  come. 

His  long  fight  was  over,  and  that  afternoon 
he  lay  by  his  window,  which  was  open  to  the 
rich,  autumn  sunlight  that  sifted  through  the 
woods  and  over  the  pasture  till  it  lay  in  golden 
sheens  across  the  fence  and  the  yard  and  rested 
on  his  window-sill,  rich  enough  almost  to 
grasp  with  his  hand,  should  he  reach  out  for 
it.  There  was  a  little  color  in  his  face — he 
had  eaten  one  good  meal  that  day,  and  his  long 
fight  with  the  fever  was  won.  He  did  not 
know  that  in  his  delirium  he  had  spoken  of 
Judith — Judith — Judith — and  this  day  and 
that  had  given  out  fragments  from  which  his 
mother  could  piece  out  the  story  of  his  love; 
that,  at  the  crisis,  when  his  mother  was  about 
to  go  to  the  girl,  Judith  had  come  of  her  own 
accord  to  his  bedside.  He  did  not  know  her, 
but  he  grew  quiet  at  once  when  the  girl  put 
her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

Now  Crittenden  was  looking  out  on  the 
sward,  green  with  the  curious  autumn  spring 
that  comes  in  that  Bluegrass  land:  a  second 
239 


Crittenden 

spring  that  came  every  year  to  nature,  and 
was  coming  this  year  to  him.  And  in  his 
mood  for  field  and  sky  was  the  old,  dreamy 
mistiness  of  pure  delight — spiritual — that  he 
had  not  known  for  many  years.  It  was  the 
spirit  of  his  youth  come  back — that  distant 
youth  when  the  world  was  without  a  shadow; 
when  his  own  soul  had  no  tarnish  of  evil; 
when  passion  was  unconscious  and  pure ;  when 
his  boyish  reverence  was  the  only  feeling  he 
knew  toward  every  woman.  And  lying  thus, 
as  the  sun  sank  and  the  shadows  stole  slow 
ly  across  the  warm  bands  of  sunlight,  and 
the  meadow-lark  called  good-night  from  the 
meadows,  whence  the  cows  were  coming  home 
ward  and  the  sheep  were  still  browsing — out 
of  the  quiet  and  peace  and  stillness  and  purity 
and  sweetness  of  it  all  came  his  last  vision — 
the  vision  of  a  boy  with  a  fresh,  open  face  and 
no  shadow  across  the  mirror  of  his  clear  eyes. 
It  looked  like  Basil,  but  it  was  "  the  little 
brother  "  of  himself  coming  back  at  last — 
coming  with  a  glad,  welcoming  smile.  The 
little  man  was  running  swiftly  across  the  fields 
toward  him.  He  had  floated  lightly  over  the 
fence,  and  was  making  straight  across  the  yard 
for  his  window;  and  there  he  rose  and  floated 
240 


Crittenden 

in,  and  with  a  boy's  trustfulness  put  his  small, 
chubby  hand  in  the  big  brother's,  and  Critten 
den  felt  the  little  fellow's  cheek  close  to  his  as 
he  slept  on,  his  lashes  wet  with  tears. 

The  mother  opened  the  door;  a  tall  figure 
slipped  gently  in;  the  door  was  closed  softly 
after  it  again,  and  Judith  was  alone;  for  Crit 
tenden  still  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  the 
girl's  face  whitened  with  pity  and  flamed 
slowly  as  she  slowly  slipped  forward  and  stood 
looking  down  at  him.  As  she  knelt  down  be 
side  him,  something  that  she  held  in  her  hand 
clanked  softly  against  the  bed  and  Crittenden 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Mother!" 

There  was  no  answer.  Judith  had  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  A  sob  reached  his  ears 
and  he  turned  quickly. 

"  Judith,"  he  said;  "  Judith,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  quick  breath.  "  Why,  my  God,  you ! 
Why — you — you've  come  to  see  me!  you, 
after  all — you!  " 

He  raised  himself  slowly,  and  as  he  bent 
over  her,  he  saw  his  father's  sword,  caught 
tightly  in  her  white  hands — the  old  sword  that 
was  between  him  and  Basil  to  win  and  wear — 
and  he  knew  the  meaning  of  it  all,  and  he 
241 


Crittenden 

had  to  steady  himself  to  keep  back  his  own 
tears. 

"Judith!" 

His  voice  choked;  he  could  get  no  further, 
and  he  folded  his  arms  about  her  head  and 
buried  his  face  in  her  hair. 


242 


XV 

THE  gray  walls  of  Indian  summer  tumbled 
at  the  horizon  and  let  the  glory  of  many  fires 
shine  out  among  the  leaves.  Once  or  twice 
the  breath  of  winter  smote  the  earth  white  at 
dawn.  Christmas  was  coming,  and  God  was 
good  that  Christmas. 

Peace  came  to  Crittenden  during  the  long, 
dream-like  days — and  happiness;  and  high 
resolve  had  deepened. 

Day  by  day,  Judith  opened  to  him  some 
new  phase  of  loveliness,  and  he  wondered  how 
he  could  have  ever  thought  that  he  knew  her; 
that  he  loved  her,  as  he  loved  her  now.  He 
had  given  her  the  locket  and  had  told  her  the 
story  of  that  night  at  the  hospital.  She  had 
shown  no  surprise,  and  but  very  little  emotion ; 
moreover,  she  was  silent.  And  Crittenden, 
too,  was  silent,  and,  as  always,  asked  no  ques 
tions.  It  was  her  secret ;  she  did  not  wish  him 
to  know,  and  his  trust  was  unfaltering.  Be 
sides,  he  had  his  secrets  as  well.  He  meant 
243 


Crittenden 

to  tell  her  all  some  day,  and  she  meant  to  tell 
hirn;  but  the  hours  were  so  full  of  sweet  com 
panionship  that  both  forbore  to  throw  the 
semblance  of  a  shadow  on  the  sunny  days  they 
spent  together. 

It  was  at  the  stiles  one  night  that  Judith 
handed  Crittenden  back  the  locket  that  had 
come  from  the  stiffened  hand  of  the  Rough 
Rider,  Blackford,  along  with  a  letter,  stained, 
soiled,  unstamped,  addressed  to  herself ,  marked 
on  the  envelope  "  Soldier's  letter,"  and  coun 
tersigned  by  his  Captain. 

"  I  heard  him  say  at  Chickamauga  that  he 
was  from  Kentucky,"  ran  the  letter,  "  and 
that  his  name  was  Crittenden.  I  saw  your 
name  on  a  piece  of  paper  that  blew  out  of  his 
tent  one  day.  I  guessed  what  was  between 
you  two,  and  I  asked  him  to  be  my  '  bunkie ;  ' 
but  as  you  never  told  him  my  name,  I  never 
told  him  who  I  was.  I  went  with  the  Rough 
Riders,  but  we  have  been  camped  near  each 
other.  To-morrow  comes  the  big  fight.  Our 
regiments  will  doubtless  advance  together.  I 
shall  watch  out  for  him  as  long  as  I  am  alive. 
I  shall  be  shot.  It  is  no  premonition — no 
fear,  no  belief.  I  know  it.  I  still  have  the 
locket  you  gave  me.  If  I  could,  I  would  give 
244 


Crittenden 

it  to  him;  but  he  would  know  who  I  am,  and 
it  seems  your  wish  that  he  should  not  know. 
I  should  like  to  see  you  once  more,  but  I 
should  not  like  you  to  see  me.  I  am  too  much 
changed ;  I  can  see  it  in  my  own  face.  Good 
night.  Good-by." 

There  was  no  name  signed.  The  initials 
were  J.  P.,  and  Crittenden  looked  up  inquir 
ingly. 

"  His  name  was  not  Blackford;  it  was  Page 
— Jack  Page.  He  was  my  cousin/'  she  went 
on,  gently.  "  That  is  why  I  never  told 
you.  It  all  happened  while  you  were  at  col 
lege.  While  you  were  here,  he  was  usually 
out  West ;  and  people  thought  we  were  merely 
cousins,  and  that  I  was  weaning  him  from  his 
unhappy  ways.  I  was  young  and  foolish,  but 
I  had — you  know  the  rest." 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"God  pity  him!" 

Crittenden  turned  from  her  and  walked  to 
and  fro,  and  Judith  rose  and  walked  up  to 
him,  looking  him  in  the  eyes. 

"  No,  dear,"  she  said;  "  I  am  sorry  for  him 

now — sorry,  so  sorry!     I  wish  I  could  have 

helped  him  more.     That  is  all.     It  has  all 

gone — long  ago.     It  never  was.     I  did  not 

245 


Crittenden 

know  until  I  left  you  here  at  the  stiles  that 
night." 

Crittenden  looked  inquiringly  into  her  eyes 
before  he  stooped  to  kiss  her.  She  answered 
his  look. 

"  Yes/'  she  said  simply;  "  when  I  sent  him 
away." 

Crittenden's  conscience  smote  him  sharply. 
What  right  had  he  to  ask  such  a  question — 
even  with  a  look  ? 

"  Come,  dear/'  he  said;  "  I  want  to  tell  you 
all — now." 

But  Judith  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  Is  there  anything  that  may  cross  your  life 
hereafter — or  mine?  " 

"No,  thank  God;  no!" 

Judith  put  her  finger  on  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  want  to  know." 


And  God  was  good  that  Christmas. 

The  day  was  snapping  cold,  and  just  a  fort 
night  before  Christmas  eve.  There  had  been 
a  heavy  storm  of  wind  and  sleet  the  night  be 
fore,  and  the  negroes  of  Canewood,  headed  by 
Bob  and  Uncle  Ephraim,  wrere  searching  the 
woods  for  the  biggest  fallen  oak  they  could 
246 


Crittenden 

find.  The  frozen  grass  was  strewn  with 
wrenched  limbs,  and  here  and  there  was  an 
ash  or  a  sugar-tree  splintered  and  prostrate, 
but  wily  Uncle  Ephraim  was  looking  for 
a  yule-log  that  would  burn  slowly  and  burn 
long;  for  as  long  as  the  log  burned,  just  that- 
long  lasted  the  holiday  of  every  darky  on  the 
place.  So  the  search  was  careful,  and  lasted 
till  a  yell  rose  from  Bob  under  a  cliff  by  the 
side  of  the  creek — a  yell  of  triumph  that  sent 
the  negroes  in  a  rush  toward  him.  Bob  stood 
on  the  torn  and  twisted  roots  of  a  great  oak 
that  wind  and  ice  had  tugged  from  its  creek- 
washed  roots  and  stretched  parallel  with  the 
water — every  tooth  showing  delight  in  his 
find.  With  the  cries  and  laughter  of  chil 
dren,  two  boys  sprang  upon  the  tree  with  axes, 
but  Bob  waved  them  back. 

"  Go  back  an'  git  dat  cross-cut  saw!  "  he 
said. 

Bob,  as  ex-warrior,  took  precedence  even 
of  his  elders  now. 

"  Fool  niggers  don't  seem  to  know  dar'll 
be  mo'  wood  to  burn  if  we  don't  waste  de 
chips!" 

The  wisdom  of  this  was  clear,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  the  long-toothed  saw  was  singing 
247 


Crittenden 

through  the  tough  bark  of  the  old  monarch — 
a  darky  at  each  end  of  it,  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  the  muscles  of  each 
powerful  arm  playing  like  cords  of  elastic 
steel  under  its  black  skin — the  sawyers,  each 
time  with  a  mighty  grunt,  drew  the  shining, 
whistling  blade  to  and  fro  to  the  handle. 
Presently  they  began  to  sing — improvising: 

Pull  him  t'roo  !  (grunt) 

Yes,  man. 

Pull  him  t'roo — huh  ! 
Saw  him  to  de  heart. 

Gwine  to  have  Christmas. 

Yes,  man  ! 
Gwine  to  have  Christmas. 

Yes,  man  ! 
Gwine  to  have  Christmas 

Long  as  he  can  bu'n. 

Burn  long,  log  ! 

Yes,  log ! 
Burn  long,  log ! 

Yes,  log, 
Heah  me,  log,  burn  long  ! 

Gib  dis  nigger  Christmas. 

Yes,  Lawd,  long  Christmas ! 
Gib  dis  nigger  Christmas 

O  log,  burn  long  ! 

248 


Crittenden 

And  the  saw  sang  with  them  in  perfect 
time,  spitting  out  the  black,  moist  dust  joy 
ously — sang  with  them  and  without  a  breath 
for  rest ;  for  as  two  pair  of  arms  tired,  another 
fresh  pair  of  sinewy  hands  grasped  the  han 
dles.  In  an  hour  the  whistle  of  the  saw  began 
to  rise  in  key  higher  and  higher,  and  as  the 
men  slowed  up  carefully,  it  gave  a  little  high 
squeak  of  triumph,  and  with  a  "  kerchunk  " 
dropped  to  the  ground.  With  more  cries  and 
laughter,  two  men  rushed  for  fence-rails  to  be 
used  as  levers. 

There  was  a  chorus  now: 

Soak  him  in  de  water, 

Up,  now  ! 
Soak  him  in  de  water, 

Up,  now  ! 
O  Lawd,  soak  long  I 

There  was  a  tightening  of  big,  black  biceps, 
a  swelling  of  powerful  thighs,  a  straightening 
of  mighty  backs;  the  severed  heart  creaked 
and  groaned,  rose  slightly,  turned  and  rolled 
with  a  great  splash  into  the  black,  winter 
water.  Another  delighted  chorus : 

"Dyarnow!" 

"  Hoi'  on,"  said  Bob;  and  he  drove  a  spike 
249 


Crittenden 

into  the  end  of  the  log,  tied  one  end  of  a  rope 
to  the  spike,  and  the  other  to  a  pliant  young 
hickory,  talking  meanwhile: 

"  Gwine  to  rain,  an'  maybe  ole  Mister  Log 
try  to  slip  away  like  a  thief  in  de  dark.  Don't 
git  away  from  Bob;  no  suh.  You  be  heah 
now  Christmas  eve — sho' !  " 

"  Gord!  "  said  a  little  negro  with  bandy 
legs.  "  Soak  dat  log  till  Christmas  an'  I 
reckon  he'll  burn  mo'n  two  weeks." 

God  was  good  that  Christmas — good  to  the 
nation,  for  He  brought  to  it  victory  and  peace, 
and  made  it  one  and  indivisible  in  feeling,  as 
it  already  was  in  fact;  good  to  the  State,  for 
it  had  sprung  loyally  to  the  defence  of  the 
country,  and  had  won  all  the  honor  that  was 
in  the  effort  to  be  won,  and  man  nor  soldier 
can  do  more ;  good  to  the  mother,  for  the  whole 
land  rang  with  praises  of  her  sons,  and  her 
own  people  swore  that  to  one  should  be  given 
once  more  the  seat  of  his  fathers  in  the  capi- 
tol;  but  best  to  her  when  the  bishop  came  to 
ordain,  and,  on  his  knees  at  the  chancel  and 
waiting  for  the  good  old  man's  hands,  was  the 
best  beloved  of  her  children  and  her  first-born 
— Clay  Crittenden.  To  her  a  divine  purpose 
seemed  apparent,  to  bring  her  back  the  best 
250 


Crittenden 

of  the  old  past  and  all  she  prayed  for  the 
future. 

As  Christmas  day  drew  near,  gray  clouds 
marshalled  and  loosed  white  messengers  of 
peace  and  good-will  to  the  frozen  earth  until 
the  land  was  robed  in  a  thick,  soft,  shining 
mantle  of  pure  white — the  first  spiritualiza- 
tion  of  the  earth  for  the  birth  of  spring.  It 
was  the  mother's  wish  that  her  two  sons  should 
marry  on  the  same  day  and  on  that  day,  and 
Judith  and  Phyllis  yielded.  So  early  that 
afternoon,  she  saw  together  Judith,  as  pure 
and  radiant  as  a  snow-hung  willow  in  the  sun 
shine,  and  her  son,  with  the  light  in  his  face 
for  which  she  had  prayed  so  many  years — 
saw  them  standing  together  and  clasp  hands 
forever.  They  took  a  short  wedding  trip,  and 
that  straight  across  the  crystal  fields,  where 
little  Phyllis  stood  with  Basil  in  uniform — 
straight  and  tall  and  with  new  lines,  too,  but 
deepened  merely,  about  his  handsome  mouth 
and  chin — waiting  to  have  their  lives  made 
one.  And,  meanwhile,  Bob  and  Molly  too 
were  making  ready;  for  if  there  be  a  better 
hot-bed  of  sentiment  than  the  mood  of  man 
and  woman  when  the  man  is  going  to  war,  it 
is  the  mood  of  man  and  woman  when  the  man 
251 


Crittenden 

has  come  home  from  war;  and  with  cries  and 
grunts  and  great  laughter  and  singing,  the 
negroes  were  pulling  the  yule-log  from  its  long 
bath  and  across  the  snowy  fields;  and  when,  at 
dusk,  the  mother  brought  her  two  sons  and  her 
two  daughters  and  the  Pages  and  Stantons  to 
her  own  roof,  the  big  log,  hidden  by  sticks  of 
pine  and  hickory,  was  sputtering  Christmas 
cheer  with  a  blaze  and  crackle  that  warmed 
body  and  heart  and  home.  That  night  the 
friends  came  from  afar  and  near;  and  that 
night  Bob,  the  faithful,  valiant  Bob,  in  a 
dress-suit  that  was  his  own  and  new,  and  Mrs. 
Crittenden's  own  gift,  led  the  saucy  Molly, 
robed  as  no  other  dusky  bride  at  Canewood 
was  ever  arrayed,  into  the  dining-room,  while 
the  servants  crowded  the  doors  and  hallway 
and  the  white  folk  climbed  the  stairs  to  give 
them  room.  And  after  a  few  solemn  mo 
ments,  Bob  caught  the  girl  in  his  arms  and 
smacked  her  lips  loudly : 

"  Now,  gal,  I  reckon  I  got  yer!  "  he  cried; 
and  whites  and  blacks  broke  into  jolly  laugh 
ter,  and  the  music  of  fiddles  rose  in  the 
kitchen,  where  there  was  a  feast  for  Bob's  and 
Molly's  friends.  Rose,  too,  the  music  of  fid 
dles  under  the  stairway  in  the  hall,  and  Mrs. 
252 


Crittenden 

Crittenden  and  Judge  Page,  and  Crittenden 
and  Mrs.  Stanton,  and  Judith  and  Basil,  and 
none  other  than  Grafton  and  radiant  little 
Phyllis  led  the  way  for  the  opening  quadrille. 
It  was  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  the  mother 
wanted,  and  an  old-fashioned  Christinas,  with 
the  dance  and  merriment  and  the  graces  of  the 
old  days  that  the  mother  had.  Over  the  por 
trait  of  the  eldest  Crittenden,  who  slept  in 
Cuba,  hung  the  flag  of  the  single  star  that 
would  never  bend  its  colors  again  to  Spain. 
Above  the  blazing  log  and  over  the  fine, 
strong  face  of  the  brave  father,  who  had 
fought  to  dissolve  the  Union,  hung  the  Stars 
and  Bars — proudly.  And  over  the  brave 
brother,  who  looked  dowTn  from  the  north 
wall,  hung  proudly  the  Stars  and  Stripes  for 
which  he  had  given  his  young  life. 

Then  came  toasts  after  the  good  old  fash 
ion — graceful  toasts — to  the  hostess  and  the 
brides,  to  the  American  soldier,  regular  and 
volunteer.  And  at  the  end,  Crittenden,  regu 
lar,  raised  his  glass  and  there  was  a  hush. 

It  was  good,  he  said,  to  go  back  to  the  past ; 

good  to  revive  and  hold  fast  to  the  ideals  that 

time  had  proven  best  for  humanity;  good  to 

go  back  to  the  earth,  like  the  Titans,  for  fresh 

253 


Crittenden 

strength;  good  for  the  man,  the  State,  the 
nation.  And  it  was  best  for  the  man  to  go 
back  to  the  ideals  that  had  dawned  at  his 
mother's  knee;  for  there  was  the  fountain- 
head  of  the  nation's  faith  in  its  God,  man's 
faith  in  his  nation — man's  faith  in  his  fellow 
and  faith  in  himself.  And  he  drank  to  one 
who  represented  his  own  early  ideals  better 
than  he  should  ever  realize  them  for  himself. 
Then  he  raised  his  glass,  smiling,  but  deeply 
moved : 

"  My  little  brother." 

He  turned  to  Basil  when  he  spoke  and  back 
again  to  Judith,  who,  of  all  present,  knew  all 
that  he  meant,  and  he  saw  her  eyes  shine  with 
the  sudden  light  of  tears. 

At  last  came  the  creak  of  wheels  on  the 
snow  outside,  the  cries  of  servants,  the  good- 
bys  and  good-wishes  and  congratulations  from 
one  and  all  to  one  and  all;  the  mother's  kiss 
to  Basil  and  Phyllis,  who  were  under  their 
mother's  wing;  the  last  calls  from  the  door 
way;  the  light  of  lanterns  across  the  fields;  the 
slam  of  the  pike-gate — and,  over  the  earth, 
white  silence.  The  mother  kissed  Judith  and 
kissed  her  son. 

"My  children!" 

254 


Crittenden 

Then,  as  was  her  custom  always,  she  said 
simply : 

"  Be  sure  to  bolt  the  front  door,  my  son." 

And,  as  he  had  done  for  years,  Crittenden 
slipped  the  fastenings  of  the  big  hall-door, 
paused  a  moment,  and  looked  out.  Around 
the  corner  of  the  still  house  swept  the  sounds 
of  merriment  from  the  quarters.  The  moon 
had  risen  on  the  snowy  fields  and  white- 
cowled  trees  and  draped  hedges  and  on  the 
slender  white  shaft  under  the  bent  willow  over 
his  father's  and  his  uncle's  grave — the  broth 
ers  who  had  fought  face  to  face  and  were 
sleeping  side  by  side  in  peace,  each  the  blame 
less  gentleman  who  had  reverenced  his  con 
science  as  his  king,  and,  without  regret  for  his 
way  on  earth,  had  set  his  foot,  without  fear, 
on  the  long  way  into  the  hereafter.  For  one 
moment  his  mind  swept  back  over  the  short, 
fierce  struggle  of  the  summer. 

As  they  had  done,  so  he  had  tried  to  do;  and 
as  they  had  lived,  so  he,  with  God's  help, 
would  live  henceforth  to  the  end.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  thought  of  the  flag  hanging  motion 
less  in  the  dim  drawing-room  behind  him — 
the  flag  of  the  great  land  that  was  stretching 
out  its  powerful  hand  to  the  weak  and  op- 
255 


Crittenden 

pressed  of  the  earth.  And  then  with  a  last 
look  to  the  willow  and  the  shaft  beneath,  his 
lips  moved  noiselessly: 

"  They  will  sleep  better  to-night." 

Judith  was  standing  in  the  drawing-room 
on  his  hearth,  looking  into  his  fire  and  dream 
ing.  Ah,  God,  to  think  that  it  should  come 
to  pass  at  last ! 

He  entered  so  softly  that  she  did  not  hear 
him.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  drowsy 
tick  of  the  great  clock  in  the  hall  and  the  low 
song  of  the  fire. 

"Sweetheart!" 

She  looked  up  quickly,  the  dream  gone 
from  her  face,  and  in  its  place  the  light  of 
love  and  perfect  trust,  and  she  stood  still,  her 
arms  hanging  at  her  sides — waiting. 

"Sweetheart!" 

God  was  good  that  Christmas. 


THE    END. 


256 


Date  Due 


PRINTED    IN    U.S./ 


CAT.    NO.    24    161 


A     000  546  891     3 


